


The Marble Man

by dutchmoxie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dutchmoxie/pseuds/dutchmoxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> An art history graduate traveling to a small town. A story that is as mysterious as the statue it is about. Nothing could have prepared Éponine Thénardier for what would happen in the sleepy town of Musain. E/E modern AU with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Chapter one

As she feels the soft wind caressing her skin, the town’s main square comes into focus and the sleepy setting brings to mind the _tranquilit_ _ é _ of small towns that she has only experienced in books and the offerings of Hollywood. She has yet to know peace, has yet to find a place to stay permanently – homes have always been temporary to her. 

She has known the feeling of home as something transient, something she has only been able to feel when surrounded by beautiful creations from centuries past. Art is the only thing that always feels familiar and right to her, which is why she has found herself in the sleepy town of Musain, a place with only a small museum as a claim to fame. That small museum does happen to have an excellent collection of 19th century sculptures, so she got herself to the nearest highway and hitchhiked most of the way there. 

The last few miles had to be traversed on foot – there is simply no traffic heading in the direction of this little gathering of houses interspersed with a few shops selling only the bare necessities. It is supposed to be an actual town, but there is barely enough to it to even be considered that. The museum is the only frivolity around for miles. 

Art would never be a frivolity for her, especially not in a tiny museum that is almost entirely focused on French-made statues of all kinds. She has seen a plethora of beautiful paintings in her travels but she has yet to fall in love with a statue like she has fallen for the paintings of Van Gogh in the Louvre or the beautiful Mona Lisa with her enigmatic smile. Statues do not mean as much to her as paintings do. 

She can fall in love with a piece of art in the space of a brushstroke or a swirl of color in a top right corner. Marble seems so cold and harsh when contrasted with the warm shades and tones of a Van Gogh or a Rembrandt. The bright colors of Roy Lichtenstein often hurt her eyes, but she sees the vintage look as the prelude to graphic novels and the details are astounding. Still, she’ll always love the olds most – and she has yet to find statues that pull at her heart as well as show aesthetic appeal. 

This is not the goal of her travels, but she has considered settling down in any random place that makes her feel again. She has been too complacent in her studies, she has let her feelings be blurred by assignments and midterms and exams. It has been too long since she pulled all-nighters because she was just so inspired and she had to finish her latest piece. To be honest, she is just blocked creatively. 

Traveling through Europe in a quest for inspiration is the only thing she can think of to get back to where she used to be. Her potential appears to have faded into mediocrity somewhere overnight and now she is just another disappointment. 

Not for long though – the future is right around the next corner, the very same corner that will finally lead her to the museum. Her expectations are tempered enough not to expect too much of this _petite_ town and its _plus petit_ museum. She will walk in, see that there’s nothing to it and then she will walk back out and straight to the nearest highway that will take her to a bigger city with more art. 

Paris is still on her list – and if Paris doesn’t sway her, if another look at DaVinci or Van Gogh cannot ignite her passion again, she might have to give up on France and leave the country. She has never been to Rome and there is so much beautiful art there that might bring back her feelings and most of all, her happiness. 

For now, she will make this town her bitch, at least for a day or so. 

The museum is right around the corner from the town square, which is right in the center of the tiny little town. It is situated close to the school and the few stores that are right around the corner. The grocery store is relatively big for a town this size, but the clothing store is so tiny there is hardly anything to it but conservative garments meant for the middle-aged ladies of the town. A peek at her paint-stained tunics and jeans might give the salesgirl an aneurysm – or at least that is what it looks like from a distance. Right now, she cannot see herself staying here for any amount of time. 

“One ticket please,” she tells the young man at the desk when she enters the building. 

“You’ll have to store your bag in a locker or with me, mademoiselle,” the young man tells her, pointing out the huge backpack she has hoisted over her shoulder. 

She was never planning on dragging the damn thing along with her while she tries to figure out if anything in this place is worth a second look or a quick sketch. And she is a realist from way back, so she honestly doubts that this place will be worth any of these things – it might be worth hanging around for a few hours to sketch some of the townspeople, because small towns are ridiculous and almost inspiring. 

“Don’t touch my shit,” she warns him with her harshest look. 

“No, ma’am,” the young man is practically tripping over himself to assure her of his good intentions. “Your belongings are safe with me. I promise.” 

If he is that desperate to please his customers, she doubt that he will ever do something to piss her off, so she is satisfied enough to leave the bag with him for the time being. She is taking her sketchpad along with her, though – just in case something comes up. 

The guy takes her money from her with trembling hands and she rolls her eyes. 

“The tour starts in two minutes,” he then speaks, voice almost steady. “Please wait here.” 

This place, this tiny museum in this tiny dot in the middle of nowhere actually has a guided tour? Well, that is interesting, since it means that the place sees enough visitors for them to be able to afford a tour – which means that they might actually have interesting pieces for her to sketch. It is more than she ever expected. 

With these last words, she gets to step back from the desk and stare at the entrance hall that is occupied by only two other visitors, both of them looking remarkably comfortable in the museum. They look like townspeople, making her the only person on the tour that has not seen all of this stuff before. Now she is left hoping that the tour guide is not some ancient man with a history degree who likes quizzing the visitors – because she got enough of that crap in college, and she is glad to be done with it. 

“Holy shit, three whole people,” an amused voice breaks through the clouds in her mind. 

When she looks in the direction of the amused voice, she finds a complete mess and her platonic soul mate in the same messed-up body. The halo of dark curls surrounds a face damaged by fights and abuse of various substances. The nose has been broken a few times and it looks almost off in comparison to the rest of his face – bright blue eyes with bags under them not quite marred by a scar coming down from his brow. His paint-spattered clothes cover a muscular body that can’t seem to stop moving, hands in constant motion to hide the occasional tremor going through his body. 

His story is written all over him and it is beautifully tragic – the laugh lines around his mouth are faint when compared to the bloodshot eyes, the scars on his body, and the track marks that she can see littering his arms. She kind of wants to sketch him so she’ll remember him and remember this moment where she just understood someone. 

“Hello stranger,” he mutters in her direction. 

“Hello fellow artist,” she smiles gently at him, waving her sketchpad in his face. 

That at least makes the corners of his mouth turn up, and the ladies who will be going on the tour with her watch the interaction with eagle eyes, hoping to gather up enough gossip to discuss at their next game of bridge or whatever old ladies do in a town like this one – maybe they knit or something, or plant flowers. 

“Is this everyone, Courf?” the artist addresses the young man behind the desk. 

It seems to be nothing more than a formality, judging by how surprised he was to find three people waiting for him to start his tour. But the man behind the desk – what kind of name is Courf, anyway – just nods and rolls his eyes. 

“Let’s start our tour then, shall we?” their tour guide just seems tired. 

“Shouldn’t you introduce us to our guest?” one of the ladies asks the guide. 

Ah yes, the typical small town nosiness makes an appearance – she has seen it on the big screen, but she never thought it would actually be like this in real life. These ladies have little to no excitement in their life if they are so desperate to hear her story and possibly to set her up with the tour guide, if their ridiculous winks in her direction are any indication of their evil plans. She really does not need any of this shit. 

“I am R Grant and I’ll be your tour guide today,” he speaks the words in the most monotone of voices, already bored with the situation. “These lovely ladies are Mrs. Aimee DuPont and Mrs. Georgette Leone. What would you like me to call you?” 

She thinks briefly about giving him an alias, but she doubts that she will be here long enough to get used to people calling her by a different name than her own – her first name is alright enough to be used in public. It’s her last name she hates. 

“Call me Éponine,” she shrugs her shoulders. 

“Éponine and Sabinus, no?” R immediately recognizes her name’s origin. 

With a nod, she hopes to be done with that topic, because discussing her mother’s love for ancient romances makes shivers roll down her spine in all the bad ways. Even though her mother is long gone, she hates talking about the woman who gave her life and nothing else of significance. Still, it’s preferable to talking of her father. 

“We will start our tour with our small collection of sketches,” R starts talking, leading his little group into the halls of the museum. “Most of the sketches you will see now are the first stage of the very statues standing in these halls, giving us an inside look into the creation process of the art of many interesting French-born sculptors.” 

The sketches are lovely, but nothing other than the tour guide is particularly interesting or inspiring, so she dawdles a bit in the hall before stepping in closer to R while they wait for the old ladies to be done with their oohs and aahs. 

“So, you draw?” R talks to her, sounding more interested than he was before. 

“I’m not terrible at it,” she shrugs, not feeling up to a discussion of her dwindling enthusiasm for her own art. “I’m assuming you’re more interested in painting?” 

She winks at him, eyeing his paint-splattered jeans with amusement. The advantage of drawing and sketching is that the mess rarely shows up on clothes – even though her fingers and hands are often covered in chalk or graphite. Her hands are always vaguely grey, because the mess has long ago stopped coming off completely and she doesn’t care about it anymore. Her hands suit her, color and all. 

“The pants keep giving me away,” R quips with a smile that is almost real. 

“You’d have a bigger problem if you didn’t wear them,” she mutters in his direction, trying to make sure that the old ladies do not hear them talking this way. 

That finally brings out an actual chuckle, and even though the ladies look pleased that their attempts at setting the youngsters up appears to have been a success, she cannot find it in herself to care about that when she see how laughter lights up R’s face. 

“I could pull off a skirt,” he teases, still grinning. 

“I am sure you have excellent legs,” she looks him up and down exaggeratedly. 

The dames look even more excited now, but R’s only response to it is to lead his trio of followers into another gallery, one that is filled with bronze statues that remind her of Rodin. The lines are almost soft enough to actually be similar to Rodin, but it is not that great man’s work – not that the work is not stellar, though. There is just nothing here that captures her, but she’s never been a statue girl and she doubts that will change. 

“Here you will find the largest part of our collection of bronzes,” R makes a sweeping gesture that covers this entire gallery. “Feel free to ask questions.” 

Yes, the tour guide is obviously quite bored with having to give a speech that he has undoubtedly given dozens or hundreds of times already. So he’s telling them the bare minimal, but leaving the option open for more if they are actually interested – and judging by the fact that the ladies seem more interested in R’s interactions with her than in the actual statues, R is not actually going to get any questions. 

“How about I take you to our most mysterious piece first?” the man obviously just wants to be done with it already. “Éponine, you might find this interesting.” 

She is almost intrigued at this, so she follows R without as much as a look back towards the old ladies to check their response to R using her name so freely. She likes mysteries and artwork that has an interesting story behind it, for no other reason than to spark her imagination and keeping it from going dormant. 

“This is the statue we know as _Man Protesting_ ,” R leads them to a beautifully sculpted marble statue standing in the middle of its gallery. “The artist is completely unknown, since the statue was recovered amongst the ruins of one of the houses that fell pray to the bombs in the Second World War. Even the name of the statue is not real.” 

The actual statue just takes her breath away. The style is very similar to Rodin, with its soft lines and how elegant and graceful the man being portrayed looks. The attention being paid to the muscles and planes of the statue’s body is just about the same as with sculptures made by Rodin, but it is the unusually expressive face that deters her from thinking that she has found a secret and hidden work by Rodin. 

“The face is so expressive and defined,” she finds herself unable to stop looking. 

“Yes it is,” R agrees with her, happy to have someone to converse with who knows a thing or two about styles and sculptors. “You can see his expression so clearly that you can almost attribute feelings to a marble statue. This is why we can’t see it being a work by Rodin. His faces are not nearly as defined.” 

This face is; it is so defined that she can see some of the statue’s curls – she imagines them to be golden like the sun – being plastered to his face by sweat. Only marble statues do not sweat, and he seems so vivid and real that she just wants to reach out for the hand he holds up in front of his body, seemingly to protect himself from whatever was out there trying to get to him. And something is getting him, because his half-naked body appears to be drenched in sweat gathered when he was running away. 

She admires his form like the professional art school graduate she is, but she still feels a tingle at the strong muscles of his upper arms and her eyes wander lower without a second thought – no matter how much she tries to focus on the definition the artist created in the thighs, and no matter how she marvels at the ridiculously tight ass, she still ends up focusing on what is between the powerful thighs, because the outline is visible even through the material of his trousers. She even blushes like the innocent girl she never really got to be, especially when R catches her checking out the ridiculously good-looking statue and winks at her, the ass. 

Still, every single detail about this statue is so life-like that she can’t manage to keep her sketchpad closed and her pencils out of her hands – she simply has to immortalize him on paper as he has been immortalized in gorgeous marble. 

The almost anguished expression on his face might be the most difficult thing to capture, because the man looks as if he was facing his doom with a resigned face put on to hide his fear away. She can see everything in his expression, and it is just so well done. 

So she plops down on the floor of the gallery and feels her hand going to trace the familiar lines of a man’s body – and it would be comforting if she had not felt so weirdly out of control by just how much she loves this work of art and how badly she needs to draw this man and understand him. 

“Do you two need a minute alone?” R is quick with a quip. 

“I’m sorry,” she has to physically shake herself to come back from her statue-induced haze. “I just had to get this guy in my book.” 

Even though she has been called out, and even though she realizes it is weird how entranced she is by this statue, she still remains in her position on the floor because she cannot leave without completing this sketch. Her memories will not be able to do his essence justice, and while she doubts her quick sketch will be able to capture him, she has better odds this way. She cannot seem to let him go. 

“Would you like to hear his story?” one of the old ladies smiles at her. 

“Tell her, Raphael,” the other lady motions to their tour guide. “You tell it very well.” 

With a roll of his eyes and a clearing of his throat, Raphael Grant appears to be getting ready to tell a story worthy of epic novels and poetry – and she doubts that this will be anything other than some ridiculous town legend about a haunted house or something. 

“We don’t have any conclusive evidence about where the statue came from,” the story starts off with its first big mystery, and she can’t help but be intrigued by everything connected to this statue. “All we know is what we collected from the rubbish of the house the statue was found in. We found several pieces of art, most of them at least partially destroyed. This statue was the only piece that was completely undamaged by the bombing – and close to it a record of the pieces was found describing the works and the stories behind them. That is why we call him _Man Protesting_ , since that is what she description in the records was. But there was something about the legend there too.” 

It is just the type of story that small towns like this one love, because it is the perfect story to bring in tourists who believe that the air of magic that hangs around this statue is actually real. She is usually the skeptic who has a better and more cynical explanation for this crap, and judging by the look in R’s eyes, he knows that he is just spouting crap to make sure the people keep visiting the museum. 

“The story goes,” R lowers his voice, making her lean in despite her best efforts to appear uninterested in this story, “that the man in marble has not always been made of marble. He was once made of flesh and blood, just like you and me. He was a passionate man and that was his downfall – his passion got people killed, and he was cursed into being a marble statue for all eternity, doomed to watch from the sidelines as history is made and lives are built without him.” 

The statue with its air of bravery will never seem passionless to her, because she can imagine him pleading for forgiveness and trying to save his own life. She can imagine him running – explaining the sweat on his brow, his chest, and everywhere else – and trying to stay away from the person trying to curse him. 

She puts the pencil back to paper; desperate to catch his expression and the definition in his body and the exact way the pants almost appear to move on his body. If there was ever a piece of art that she would consider to be magical, it would be this one, simply because this amount of detail is almost unheard of even in parts of a statue, let alone in the whole thing. Either the world missed the best sculptor it has ever seen, or there is something more to this statue than even the legend speaks of. 

“There is a way to break the curse,” one of the old ladies speaks up.

“Now where did you hear that, Georgette?” R admonishes gently. 

This is likely to be just another bit of exaggerated gossip to interest the old ladies, and if she knows these biddies at all, it will have something to do with love. 

“The curse is broken when he finds love,” Georgette exclaims. 

“How is he supposed to do that as a marble statue?” R is just as skeptical as she is. “He is frozen solid for the rest of his days, which does not make it easy to find anything.” 

With that last remark and the accompanying eye roll, she finds it hard not to choke on the chuckles rising up her throat – but she succeeds enough to make sure that the ladies do not give her the dark looks that they are currently giving R. 

“Let’s continue with the rest of our tour,” R just needs a different topic to discuss. 

“But,” she stammers softly. “But…”

Somehow she feels like she actually cannot leave this statue behind. His arm reaching out to protect himself, his desperately hidden fear, and his body slick with sweat from running away from his dark fate – somehow her very body protests at leaving him alone to let the world pass him by again. 

“I’m fucking ridiculous,” she mutters before getting up. 

One last look at her sketch, and then one last look at the statue – just to check that nothing changed in him since the last time she looked at him. But no, the look on his face was exactly the same, and nothing in his posture has changed. 

“You can always come back later,” R whispers when they walk to the next gallery. 

That soothes the stupid knot in her stomach at least a little, so she is content to let him lead her to another gallery of sculptures, these ones mostly made of marble, but none as beautiful or striking as her new favorite. There are more sculptures of females here, and she can appreciate that – but her thoughts keep coming back to the _Man Protesting_ in the previous gallery. She cannot seem to let him go. 

e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e

She has not been able to think of anything other than that damn statue ever since she first saw it. About half a dozen sketches in her sketchpad show her interest, but none of those sketches has managed to capture the exact look on his face, and not one of the sketches looks enough like him. She just has not gotten him yet, and she is almost frustrated enough to start tearing pages out of her sketchbook until she feels sane again – that is, if she ever will. The need to draw him just is not abating. 

“Still here?” R walks over to her, looking gaunter than he did when they met. 

“I can’t get his stupid face right,” she huffs. “It’s just not coming out right.” 

His jaw is sharp but strong, and she cannot seem to get the shape of his eyes right – but the thing that pains her most of all is trying to get his expression onto the page and failing miserably. Either it’s the shading around his eyes that doesn’t seem to work, or his mouth looks almost happy – next time she might draw him happy, just because she can and happiness appears to be sorely lacking in her statue. 

“You might want to pick this up again tomorrow,” R is sympathetic to her plight. 

There is plenty of time for her to get this right though – the museum isn’t closing for hours, because the tour ended at 2 PM and that’s when she sat down to start drawing, just a few minutes ago. Still, if she wants to get out of this town…

“I kind of need to lock up,” her new friend is getting impatient now. “It’s that time.” 

Wait, what? She blinks rapidly, trying to get rid of the statue-induced haze in her brain to figure out what is going on in the real world. Apparently time has been passing without her knowledge, because R is pointing at the clock – and that damn magic clock is showing that it is past six and the museum is past due to close. How did that happen?

“Crap,” she is trying not to cuss. “I can’t head out of town today.” 

Not only is it way too late to attempt to get to a city without being inappropriately fondled by some truck driver, she also feels like she still has more than a little unfinished business with her statue – especially now that she is stupidly referring to it as hers. 

“Know any decent B&Bs around?” she asks R, trailing behind him. 

“I know a place,” he shrugs, motioning for her to walk in front of him as they get closer and closer to the museum’s exit. “It has an attic room available indefinitely, and it’s dirt cheap. You would have to share the kitchen facilities with two men, though.” 

Grabbing her bag from behind the front desk without as much as a word, R seems ridiculously casual and that means that there is something up with this offer. This does not sound like any kind of real B&B – it sounds more like he’d like a girl in his attic, and she had better hope he’s not too much of a freak about wanting to do things to her. 

“Is this your attic?” she is rightly suspicious at this offer. 

“Technically, the house belongs to Jehan’s parents,” R shrugs, locking the heavy entrance doors firmly. “We still have to pay them back. But yeah, I live there. So does Jehan – you’ll meet him later, he’s a poet. If you pay for groceries, we’ll let you stay.” 

The offer sounds too good to be true, so she continues to be wary, just so she doesn’t end up chained to a radiator or six feet under. Honestly, she has done things that might not have been considered to be very smart, but staying with a stranger who just happens to offer his attic to her when she asks? Yeah, that sounds like the first act of some ridiculous horror movie that she would prefer to miss out on. 

“I am just looking for another bro,” his hands are held up defensively. 

It is that gesture, the one that reminds her of her statue, that makes her actually consider R’s offer – it would be the most convenient way to make sure that she gets another day to spend with her protesting man. And really, no matter how pathetic it may sound, that is all that she wants at this point. 

“Sure,” she shrugs, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. 

“Good,” R leads the way. “I’m desperately craving pizza.” 

Her interest has been sparked again – and her life will be charcoal and parchment again. 


	2. Chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Amis.

Jehan is pretty – there is no other way to describe him, because handsome doesn’t quite cover the long red-golden braid swinging over his shoulder or the big green eyes, the playful nose, and the mouth that is always smiling. He looks almost waifish, but she is hesitant to doubt his strength, seeing as he lifts her bag over his shoulder with a completely ridiculous amount of ease. 

“I take one shift at work and you bring a girl home?” Jehan is obviously teasing R. 

“Something new and different for us,” R replies while they all head upstairs. “I was trying to be sarcastic, but it really is new. We never have girls over.” 

This is either something ridiculously sinister or it is as simple and obvious as the chemistry between the two men she is currently following up the stairs. The stairs are rickety and they creak ominously under her feet, but seeing as both of the men have managed to get upstairs without falling or breaking something, she thinks her too skinny self should be fine. And with a final creak, she reaches the door to the attic. 

“That’s because Marius is too afraid to bring Cosette over,” Jehan grins almost proudly at that. “And the rest of the guys can’t think with their upstairs brains yet.” 

Honestly, at this point she is tuning most of the conversation out, because she is too busy casing the attic to figure out all of her possible escape routes, if they should end up being necessary – a girl’s gotta be prepared, right? So far, she notices several windows that she can use for a quick jaunt over the few rooftops that this tiny town possesses, and she can probably slide down the banister easy enough to get past someone – she is small, but she is fast and deceptively strong. And she is also ridiculously paranoid. 

“And for some reason Bahorel doesn’t like to have his sister over,” the sarcasm is dripping from every syllable out of R’s mouth. 

“Could that be because he doesn’t want there to be impromptu threesomes again?” Jehan discusses this so calmly that he might as well be talking about the weather. “Joly and Bossuet have no problems with that – as we very well know.” 

Holy shit these guys are what you’d call “interesting characters” – they are so at ease talking about threesomes that she is actually kind of impressed. She is impressed enough to seriously consider being their friend just to see what kind of shenanigans go on with them and their other friends in this house. 

“Was that a test?” she asks calmly. 

“How are you not screaming and running away?” R seems proud of her and frustrated at the same time. “Most people we meet can’t get away fast enough.”

Now that she has her escape routes mapped out – her favorite is the one out the side window that would take her into the garden, which has a lot of trees and bushes to hide in or behind – she can look at the furniture inside of this room. There is a tiny couch that looks old enough to be ridiculously comfortable, and a bed that has not yet decided if it wants to be big enough for one or two people. This attic is basically an entire apartment, complete with a tiny bathroom – she can shower in peace without having to think of bothering the men. Shit, this is better than her fucking dorm room. 

“I have a high tolerance for this brand of weird,” she says with a straight face. 

“You kind of have to have that to be able to deal with us,” Jehan gently places her bag on the floor for her. “It’s in the job requirement.” 

She rolls her eyes at these dorks and looks at all her earthly belongings on the floor in front of her – everything she is, was, and ever shall be; all of those things are in that worn down bag. It is not much, but it is all she will ever need. 

“Anything you don’t like on your pizza?” R gets ready to leave her to settle in. 

“Nah, I’m easy,” she says purposefully, winking at the men. 

That makes them laugh, and their taunts to each other echo through the attic long after they arrive downstairs, leaving her alone with her thoughts for a little while – and most of those thoughts are of her statue, of her protesting man. 

She is going to be right back in the gallery when it opens the next morning. 

e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e

But first there is dinner. 

After she unpacks she heads downstairs immediately, hoping to figure out these guys a bit better and to get a distraction from the stupid fucking statue. 

Things are different than before though – there is no laughter coming from downstairs and there is loud music playing in a language that she does not speak. All that she can get from the music is that it does not sound particularly happy, and that makes her start worrying about her new roommates immediately. She feels like she knows them already, and she has seen darkness in R already – enough darkness to make her worried about him when a voice sounds like it is in pain and nobody else is talking. 

The door flies open then and she flinches at the sound. 

“Please tell me I am not late for pizza night,” the young man from the front desk waltzes into the house like he owns it. “Because my day was terrible and only pizza and the love of a beautiful woman will be able to make it better. And since the last thing I’m about to find in this house is a beautiful woman – let alone one who will love me, I…” 

As the young man takes in the state of the house, he seems to know that his speech is best kept to himself. He seems a lot more exuberant now that he is not desperately trying to make his visitors come back to the museum. 

“Jehan, R?” he calls out his friends’ names over the music. 

A female singer is screaming about something and she can actually feel the anguish in the woman’s voice – so much that it makes her a little uncomfortable. This is not the same house she arrived in less than an hour ago, and now she is left more than a little uncomfortable with the current atmosphere and wondering if it is too late to leave. 

“Damn it, did you guys cook again?” the friend does not seem too happy. “You know all too well what happens if you two start fighting over dinner!” 

She is obviously missing the capability to connect these particular dots, but now that she has deemed the friend relatively sane, she feels safe enough to continue her journey downstairs. The stairs still creak obnoxiously, alerting the guy of her presence long before he can actually see her – but still, the surprised look he gets in his eyes when she actually gets into view is definitely something to behold. 

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, grinning widely at her. “Hello milady, I am Courfeyrac.” 

Now he is actually trying to flirt with her, but she ends that with an elegant arch of her eyebrow, and he is back to his surprise that his two friends have actually managed to get a girl into the house. And judging by the crazy amounts of chemistry R and Jehan appear to have, she doubts that they need to have a girl present. 

“I’m Éponine,” she tells him her name. “R was kind enough to let me crash in the attic.” 

They shake hands when she finally reaches the bottom of the stairs, and then she is lost for words – having trouble thinking with the music wailing at such a terrible volume and the two guys apparently fighting over something as ridiculous as food. 

“This is quite the situation you’re wandering into,” Courfeyrac notices how awkward she is feeling, and he leads her into the direction of the kitchen. “R and Jehan are fun guys, except for when they’re being moody shits because they’re fighting over something.” 

He steps into the living room briefly, and suddenly the noise is gone and all she can hear is her own breathing and soft crying – and that breaks her heart until it abruptly stops when the guy in question figures out that the soft sobs are now audible because the music is no longer playing. She thinks it has to be Jehan, because R would drown his sorrows in a bottle of liquor or another intoxicating vice of his. 

They both have some things to hide, some things that they are not currently dealing with – at least not in any kind of healthy way. It seems like there are much deeper things going on underneath that happy exterior they display. 

“They were just going to order pizza,” she figures Courfeyrac should have all the information before he tries to fix whatever it is that is going on at the moment. 

“Oh damn it,” Courfeyrac looks decidedly unhappy with this situation. “Not this childishness again, you idiots.” 

Her explanation makes him march into the living room and sit both of the guys down on the couch by force, and then he proceeds to stare them down like they are delinquent students and he is the mighty principal who gets to decided just what the punishment will be. And the punishment will be severe, especially since R and Jehan just continue to mope and avoid each other’s eyes, both pretending they are alone on the couch. 

“Apologize, both of you,” Courfeyrac orders, sounding stern. “And do it quickly, because I’m tired of your bullshit and there’s a lovely lady waiting for her pizza.” 

“He was being an asshole for no reason,” Jehan starts, showing her a darker and more fierce side than she was expecting of him. “I was just asking what we should order and of course Mr. Dickhead asked for a fucking meat lovers pizza!” 

Assuming that Jehan is a vegetarian, that is a really dick move to play. Honestly, these two have been living together for way too long if they have these dramatic fights over something like this. Also, they are obviously trying to keep the other person from getting too close to them – or at least, close enough to realize the serious case of feelings that they both have going on. Can they just admit to it already?

“Just because you don’t eat dead animals, doesn’t mean I don’t get to,” R rolls his eyes. 

“Well you can buy your own damn pizza then,” Jehan finally faces his friend. 

They are facing each other now, both looking extremely defensive and ready to start another fight over something as simple as what should be put on their pizza. Obviously, both of these guys have very strong emotions, and since they are very close to each other, they know the exact thing to say to upset the other person. And they just keep doing it, falling into the same old traps and keeping their relationship permanently away from anything resembling love or romance. 

Honestly, all she can think is that there has to be something more to it than just the choice of what they are going to put on their pizza. Because fighting this much over something that simple? That is just ridiculous – even for these two. 

“How about we order two pizzas for the four of us?” she tries to propose a solution. “One can be vegetarian, and the other can have dead animal on it.” 

Both of the guys shrug, and she takes that to mean that they can both accept that solution, and Courfeyrac seems to be alright with that plan as well. She knows that this is only a temporary solution, but at least her music-induced headache is fading and everyone is talking to each other again. That is all she wants right now. 

That and some fucking pizza – because she’s starving!

e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e

They are completely without conflict until Courfeyrac randomly decides that they just have to go out to “the bar” – he uses those words with a kind of sacredness attached to them that should only be used for religious artifacts. 

“What is this sacred place?” she mocks Courfeyrac’s awe of it with ease. 

“He’s taking about the Corinthe,” Jehan is the only one who is not literally jumping up and down in excitement about venturing outside. “It’s just the local bar.” 

To be quite fair to Courf and R, they have shared quite a few beers between the two of them, leaving them giddy and hyper enough to actually start jumping up and down in happiness and the mere mention of what she assumes is their favorite bar. They are both in the upswing again, and apparently they really do not appreciate even the slightest insinuation that this Corinthe is not the holy place they seem to think it is – they are currently glaring at her and at Jehan, in a rather comic fashion. 

“There is no just about it,” R is the first one to argue with them. 

“It is the best place in town,” Courf joins R’s side of this conversation. “The darling Musichetta and her brother run that place better than most clubs I have seen.” 

Well, she has never been the clubbing kind of girl, so she would not know too much about that. She is the girl who spends her days and nights fixing the lines on her latest drawing and then falls asleep halfway into her first beer. In college, she was known as the girl with the crazy tolerance for alcohol, but it has been a while since she let go like that – after what happened, she just couldn’t do it. 

“Musichetta is perfectly happy with the two boyfriends she already has,” Jehan’s mouth is twisted in a wry grin. “Stop flirting with her, Courf.” 

She is not going to think about that statement too much, except to mock Courf a bit about his flirting – because he is that affable kind of guy who sees being made fun of as an expression of appreciation. And she does appreciate the lighthearted humor that these guys have around each other – even though there is so much more under the surface that they have yet to show to her. But right now, she is both scared and excited by the idea of a fun night out with the guys.

They are planning to introduce her to all of their friends, even though she has warned them that she does not always make the best first impression on people. They don’t care, and they have repeatedly mentioned that their friends are enough like them to appreciate her. That was after Courf gave her and R a friendly command to shut up after the 45-minute discussion on the possible merits of Jackson Pollock. 

“Let’s go,” Courf now leads the way to the door. 

“Please no drunken singing this time,” R rolls his eyes at his friend, only to follow right behind Courf, and dragging her along for the ride. “Save it for karaoke night!” 

R is being quite gentle with her, even though he is dragging her along with him, right out of the house before she even has the time to grab more than her ten-euro bill that she always carries for emergencies. Well, if they want her to go along with them so badly, they also have to be the ones to pay. Her small stream of money will soon run dry. 

“We don’t want you to get arrested again,” Jehan locks the door behind them. 

Now that is a story she would like to hear more about – especially if it involves bouts of drunken singing on the dark streets of Musain. Oh, she will probably hear of it eventually, since she is going to be surrounded by drunken men and only a few other women – and men have the tendency to tell stories that they deem impressive, or to start making crude jokes to out-tough each other. 

“Follow me, m’lady,” Courf does an exaggerated bow and holds out his arm. 

“Thank you kind sir,” she takes it with only a brief roll of her eyes. 

It is a smart ploy, because Courf offering her his arm leaves R and Jehan to walk side by side, and she and Courf both pretend like they are not casually glancing at the other two and hoping something will happen there. They are playing matchmaker already, even though she hardly knows any of these guys – only she kind of gets them. 

“It’s only two blocks away?” she asks when she finds herself in front of the Corinthe. 

“The town is not that big, you know,” Courf grins at her. “You’ve pretty much seen all of it at this point. The museum is right at the center square, where all the public areas and stores are – and the rest of the town is just the surrounding houses. It’s not much.” 

Not much might even be an understatement, but she is willing to stick around for a little while if that means that she will find her passion for art again – and that she will manage to get the protesting man’s face right. Because damn it if she is not extremely frustrated about just not getting him and his story – she will though. She will get there. 

“Welcome to the Corinthe,” Courf opens the door for her. 

The summer heat has lingered in this bar, but it still carries that comfy café atmosphere that tells of spending long nights drinking beers and talking with friends in one of the booths. The majority of the group in the back shouts loudly when Courf enters, so she assumes that those guys are the infamous people she knows nothing about. 

“Musichetta, the usual,” Courf smiles at the woman behind the bar. “And one extra for my friend Éponine.” 

This Musichetta, the exotic woman behind the bar, is a tiny elf compared to the hulking brute standing next to the elf, on the same side of the bar. The brute is looking at her with the intimidating kind of curiosity while he is cleaning some of the used glasses. At the same time, Musichetta just smiles at her and frowns at Courf. 

“Let your friend order what she wants,” Musichetta gently admonishes him. 

“We start with a round of shots,” the brute grins at Musichetta and starts pouring drinks into shot glasses at a speed that makes it impossible to take her eyes off him. 

Damn, she wishes she were that good at bartending back when she did it!

“Why must you always do this?” Musichetta sounds exasperated now. 

“It’s an ancient Corinthe tradition, sis,” the brute shows a dimpled grin at both of them. 

Wait, these two are actually siblings? The hulking brute with the slightly non-Caucasian/maybe-Asian coloring is related to the tiny pixie with the black curls and the bright smile? So yeah, she can see some things that are similar, but it is still a bit of an odd couple look – of the Laurel and Hardy kind. 

“Help me up,” Musichetta motions to her brother.

And with that, the guy actually hoists his sister onto the actual physical bar, and with a quick stomp of her tiny feet, Musichetta manages to get everyone’s attention. 

“We’re welcoming our new friend Éponine with a round of shots,” Musichetta looks fierce, and she is staring most determinedly at her new friends in the back. “I swear, if any of you behaves like more of an idiot than usual, Bahorel will kick you all out!” 

Honestly – the guys look way more terrified of Musichetta than they are of her big badass brother Bahorel. Okay, she really fucking loves alliteration like that, but that was not the point, because here is this girl who is barely over five feet tall intimidating about a dozen guys who are up to a head taller than her. And it is awesome. 

“I’m coming down,” Musichetta warns her before quickly jumping off the bar and sticking the landing with a ridiculous amount of ease. “So, now that that’s done…”

She closes her mouth quickly, trying not to seem too much in awe of who she is sure is going to be the closest female friend that she has ever had. When Musichetta hands her a shot and shoos her brother into the back with the rest of the drinks, she is left trying to find her words – but since that is not working, she just slams the shot down quickly and relishes in the burn that wakes her up again. 

“So, you’re the only girl Jehan and R have actually taken home with them,” Musichetta gets right to business, and she can only appreciate that. 

“Are those two ever going to do it already?” she asks in return, sneaking a quick peek at her friends who are roughhousing together in a booth in the back. “I’ve only known them for a few hours, but they have chemistry powerful enough to power a whole city.” 

That makes Musichetta laugh, and the laughter is hoarse enough to make a sharp contrast to her sweet voice that carries a slight accent. She can’t actually make out what kind of accent it is, but it makes her words sound sweet until she gets angry enough to yell and get up onto a bar. 

“Let me give you a quick rundown of who’s who,” the other woman sits down on a bar stool and starts pointing at the men. “You know our artists, Jehan and R, and our resident self-proclaimed ladies man Courfeyrac. The guy next to Courf is my Joly, he’s a med student in the next town over – he’s a bit of a hypochondriac, so please don’t tell him anything about any kind of itches or colds you might have. I beg of you.” 

Her Joly turns out to be a rather ordinary-looking fellow with a pleasant smile on his face as he sips from what appears to be a glass of water and he jokes with Courfeyrac about something. His cheeks are shaven – giving him this sweet boyish look – and his hair looks like a bit of a mess. He looks like a cute little brother type guy to her. 

“My Bossuet is right there,” Musichetta has located her other boyfriend. “He’s the sexy bald guy. He has such bad luck though, and weird stuff tends to happen around him, so don’t be too surprised. He calls me his good luck charm.” 

Okay, so Bossuet is dark-skinned and not unattractive, with shining white teeth when he grins. Though he is a bit jittery and he almost slams a glass out of someone’s hands three times within just the short time she is watching him, she still thinks him easily approachable and someone she could see herself talking too quite easily. 

“Sorry to interrupt the introduction speech,” the guy with glasses comes walking up to them with his hands raised to defend himself, “I really have to get home.” 

His glasses are just about sliding off his nose, and he fixes them with a quick gesture before pulling out his wallet and handing Musichetta a few bills to settle his check for the night. Her friend huffs at him good-naturedly, and it seems like an age-old ritual for Musichetta and this man whose gentleness just radiates from him – just like the professor look he is sporting. She has him pegged as a student immediately. 

“Must you be the only responsible one?” Musichetta smiles at him. 

“I have kids to teach in the morning,” is his quick response. “I am really sorry that I will not have the time to chat with you tonight, Mademoiselle Éponine. But I will introduce myself. I am Alain Combeferre, and it is a pleasure to meet you! Feel free to call me Alain, but I must say that almost all of my friends choose to call me ‘Ferre.” 

Oh, so he is not a student, but rather a teacher. Yes, she can see him being the kind young teacher that all the kids love, because he would know literally everything, and the one all the young moms – and even some of the older ones – would drool over. 

“It is nice to meet you, ‘Ferre,” she shakes his hand with a smile. 

They share quick grin before Combeferre exits stage left – or just through the front door, because that’s all there is. The raucous sounds from the back area have not ceased, and when she takes a quick look over there, she finds Bahorel the brute mainlining just as much booze as the rest of the guys, without even appearing fazed by it. It seems odd that they hardly even notice that their serious friend has gone home. 

“It is a crime against humanity that ‘Ferre isn’t a father already,” Musichetta ponders.

While she is sure that Musichetta is not about to volunteer for the job, she still sees the look on her new friend’s face – it is not pity, it is a genuine hope for her friend ‘Ferre to find happiness in someone, like she has found in both of her boyfriends. 

That is only an assumption, but Musichetta’s facial expressions tell a thousand words. 

“It is almost as much of a crime against humanity as Feuilly’s hat,” another very telling facial expression crosses her friend’s face. “That’s Feuilly, by the way. He works at the local crafts store – he can make just about any kind of furniture. That is a talent, but his complete lack of fashion sense is his curse. Take off the hat, idiot!”

A reflexive wince escapes her at the volume of that last sentence, but it turns out to actually work on the guys, because they take the hat off their friend’s head and start another ridiculous discussion, while pointing in her direction. 

“Éponine, they’re asking for you,” Bahorel has finally returned with an empty tray.

“I can’t keep my boys waiting,” she winks slyly and sends another grin in Musichetta’s direction before pushing away from the bar and towards the loud screams of her boys. 

It is going to be a long night, and she is not sure that she will even care about the eventual hangover and embarrassing moments that will undoubtedly occur. Judging by the plastic cups on the tables, these little boys are about to get their asses kicked by an actual beer pong champion – and they will not even know what is happening. 

“Who needs to get his ass kicked most?” she asks, hoping there is someone who will want to be on her team in this game. “Just take a number and I’ll get to you in due time.” 

In her trek over to the back of the bar, she barely noticed a young man following right behind her. His freckles aren’t too obvious in the dim lighting of the Corinthe, but she can tell that his face is covered in the cute little spots – overall, this guy has distinct hints of being handsome and adorable, and she smiles at him sweetly. Just what she needs!

“I’m on her team,” the new arrival announces. 

“Who thinks he’s man enough to take us on?” she knows how to hit where it hurts. 

Courfeyrac is desperate to prove himself, and he is soon joined by the calm Feuilly. 

“Marius, you traitor,” Courfeyrac exaggerates how upset he is. 

“I like to be on the winning team,” Freckles, who is apparently named Marius, is quick to banter with Courf before he turns to smile at her. “Marius Pontmercy, at your service!”

He holds out his hand and she takes it, giving it a firm shake – she really wants to make a good impression on him. A cutie with a smart mind – that is not a kind of person she comes across often, especially not one who is actually interested in women. 

“What are the official rules around here?” she wants to make sure there are no calls about her cheating or about breaking the rules halfway into the game. 

“10 cups,” Courf faces her with a pompous grin that will soon be gone, “bouncing and re-racking are allowed. Cups will be filled up to the ridges, and the ball must be cleaned after each shot. No fingering or blowing is the ball is spinning on the edge, and in the unlikely event that you both make the shot on your turn; you can each have one extra turn. No more rollbacks after that one, though. And shutouts will be called by the winning team only – no one else is allowed to get involved.” 

Taking a quick look at Marius to see if there are any rules that surprise him – if there are, those rules have been added because they are playing her. But no, Marius hardly reacts to most of these rules, with the exception of the last one, because he starts chuckling softly at that one – probably fondly remembering the reason for that rule. 

“Sounds fair,” she nods, accepting the rules. “Let’s do it!” 

The cups are mostly stacked already, so there isn’t much for her to do except to get a feel for this table they are playing on, and to stretch her arm muscles a bit – because it really has been quite a while since she has trashed some overconfident guys at this game. 

“Ladies first,” Feuilly is genuine and offers her the ball with a smile. 

“You might regret this later,” she warns, giving him an easy grin in return. 

Her arc shot is the least rusty out of all of them, so she figures that she will start with that one, focusing on the glass in the front of the other team’s little pyramid. When she feels the ball leave her fingers, she already knows that she is going to make the shot – and she does, because the ball falls into the beer cup with a soft plop. 

“Bottom’s up!” she tells the boys with a grin. 

“Lucky shot,” Courf pouts as he is forced to drink the first glass of the game. 

Oh, he is being petty now, made to be a bit awful to her by bruised pride and too much to drink. It is annoying and makes her think less of him, until he actually starts pouting and she realizes that he has been exaggerating just a bit to tease her. It is not the right way to tease her – she is passionate about female equality and highly competitive – but she can give him points for trying to make her smile in all this. 

There are no points for Marius though, as his shot harmlessly bounces off the side of one of the cups on their left and bounces away from them all. 

“Not quite, Pontmercy,” Feuilly grins as he gets ready to take aim.

And of course Feuilly’s bounce shot goes right into a cup in the middle of their stack, forcing her to be the one to take that first drink on her side, and hoping that dear old Courfeyrac will miss his shot as she feels the cheap beer go down in one big gulp. 

“Damn it,” Courfeyrac indeed misses his shot. 

“Better luck next time,” Marius taunts his friend with a smile. “Our turn again!” 

When he turns that smile on her, she feels her cheeks heat up in response, and she remembers what it’s like to be in love. 

Several hours later, when she crashes into bed – a victorious champion of beer pong who has been completely undefeated – what she remembers most about the night is that sweet smile on his freckled face. 

e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e

This time she can almost get the eyes right, but the lips just will not get onto the page, at least not in any way similar to the way that they are on the statue. It’s the curve of his upper lip that is not quite right, or just the shape of his mouth that just does not work – and this will never stop being incredibly frustrating. 

“Your face is stupid,” she tells her protesting man in frustration. 

She can imagine his response to that: a huff and a roll of his eyes, and he would continue to wait impatiently while she finished sketching him. She can’t imagine that he would have been a very patient man, not ever. 

“Stupidly beautiful, actually,” she mutters under her breath and imagines him blushing. 

He would be completely unaware of how stunning he actually is, with the golden curls and the blue eyes that could see right into a person’s soul. She is perfectly aware of how corny and deranged she sounds with her musings on the beauty and the character of a frozen statue, but she cannot stop thinking about him. She has never felt this drawn to a piece of art, so she keeps coming back and trying to capture him so she will never be able to forget him, even when she ends up leaving this town. 

“I think you would be a harsh man,” she tells him, sure of this. “You intimidate people, and while you do not always mean to, you will definitely make use of it when it does happen. Did you inadvertently take advantage of the wrong person?” 

The curse was placed upon him, no matter how he tried to escape it; no matter how he protested and held up his hand to defend himself from what was coming after him with such strength, power, and prejudice. He really must have hurt someone for them to hate him so much that they would do this to him. But she cannot imagine her statue being a terrible person. He might be capable of being terrible, but she cannot see him as a bad and terrible person who hurt people indiscriminately. 

“Have you not atoned enough already?” she pleads with him to change his expression somehow, to stop looking as if he is carrying people’s pain with him. 

Sometimes it almost hurts to look at him for that very same reason – it reminds her of broken plates and broken bones and broken connections and so much pain. She never wants to be reminded of the dark side of her past. 

“Éponine, they told me I could find you here,” her teammate from the beer pong tournament has managed to find her somehow. “I’m sorry to interrupt like this.” 

Marcus – no wait, his name was Marius, Marius Pontmercy – smiles at her in that way of his, the way that reminds her of afternoons in the park and nights in the backseat with her high school boyfriend. Before. He reminds her of before. 

“Marius, what a surprise,” she smiles at him, trying to remember how to flirt. 

“Has R talked to you yet?” is the curious question she gets in response to that. 

She does not get what her secret interest in this freckled hunk has to do with any of her new roommates, let alone with R, but she will go along with this for now. 

“I have not seen him since this morning,” she shrugs, careful to keep smiling. 

“Oh, well, I guess that makes this kind of premature,” Marius appears to be blushing. “Oh, there is our resident cynic. R, can you discuss this with Éponine?”

Now there is something to discuss with her? It must be another great town mystery – only her sarcasm probably won’t transfer too well here. She has no idea what Marius is even doing at the museum, because she heard he was working as a lawyer and lawyers do not usually have all that much to do with museums. 

“Too eager again, Marius?” R is quick to tease. “How does Cosette feel about that?” 

There is a Cosette? Who is Cosette? Oh well fuck! It looks like this stupid crush is not going anywhere after all, because he has a significant other – at least, she assumes. 

“Cosette and I are perfectly happy,” the goofy grin on Marius’ face tells her all she needs to know. “Now, can we please get back to the topic at hand?” 

So, there goes that – right out the window. 

“Yeah, Éponine,” R suddenly addresses her, “I know you only just got here two days ago, and you hardly know us, but I need your help with something.” 

There is a hint of suspicion rising in her, because yes, she does not know these guys all too well, and all she knows about R suggests a series of bad habits that she does not particularly want to be involved in. But then again, if Marius is involved in this, she doubts that it will have anything to do with R’s less than clean habits. 

“Continue,” she keeps her face carefully neutral. 

“I just got an e-mail from my sister,” the look on R’s face is a great source of hilarity, “and apparently birthdays are every year and I am supposed to turn up to hers next week, even though she lives on the other side of the country and I have a job that I am supposed to turn up for. So, I was wondering, since you have that degree in art history, if you would mind filling in for me for about two weeks?” 

Wait, what? All she has done over the last few days is drink and eat with the guys and stare at her statue friend while her friends are at work. Honestly, she thinks the statue might be the closest friend she has ever made – he knows more about her than any of the flesh and blood people she has encountered over the last few days. 

“That is why I am here,” Marius piles on some more information. “See, I represent the museum, and I have a contract for you to sign, detailing your wages and benefits for the duration of two weeks. That is, if you agree to take the position.” 

Of course Marius would say everything in super formal lawyer speak – exactly the sort of thing that does absolutely nothing for her. Though having a job for a little while sounds like a good idea, especially because her money fund is about to run dry – and she does eventually want to move on to another city. 

“What would I have to do exactly?” she asks R, not quite sure about this. 

“You’d have to do the tours a few times a day,” R starts to explain what he usually does during the day. “Though that depends on how many visitors we get. Groups of at least five or people who are new to the town merit a tour. And if there are no tours to be given there’s always paperwork that needs doing or descriptions of art to write for future exhibits. A lot of it is just busy-work though.” 

Well, she might as well do it. She needs the money and she gets a job that allows her to stare at art all day, and maybe she will even get some more time to spend drawing her favorite statue, her protesting man and her friend. 

“I’ll do it,” she smiles softly. 

“Sign here,” Marius offers her the contract immediately. “And welcome to the staff!” 

That damn Marius is still smiling at her so sweetly and all she sees is ‘Parnasse smiling back at her after they kissed for the first time – and she can’t breathe for just a little while, shaking her head to make the fog escape from her brain. She just has to take a few deep breaths and paste on her smile – which gets a bit easier with a look at her statue friend, because she somehow knows that he would understand. 

“You’re a lifesaver Éponine,” R lifts her up and spins her around. 

“Put me down, asshole,” she tries to use her stern voice, but the giggles escape anyway. 

While hoisted up in the air, she catches a glimpse of a statue, and she swears he could actually be trying to end these shenanigans while trying to hide his amusement. She is starting to attribute these emotions to him, and she is almost scared what spending more time with him will do to her – but she is also curious. 

Who knows what goes on in this museum, with her statue?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, finally catching up on updates here on AO3


	3. Chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As time goes by...

In the week she has been working at the museum, and the two weeks she has been in town, she has gotten more and more at ease in the town of Musain. Sure, the old biddies still stare at her curiously, and she still stumbles over her words when doing these impromptu tours – but the people show up in larger groups than ever just to hear the new girl speak, and that is what the big boss likes. More visitors are always welcome. 

“Éponine,” she hears a familiar voice. 

“Hey ‘Ferre,” she spots the friendly face immediately, leading a group of pre-teens in her direction. “Are you coming for a tour? My boss didn’t tell me anything.” 

Not that she has anything better to do than to give a tour to about twenty kids, but she still would have liked to know so she could alter her tour talk a bit to fit their age and to think of a few facts that these kids would find interesting. She remembers her siblings at this age – and fuck if the reminder doesn’t hurt – and she hopes she can manage without any preparation. But then again, she has been forced to prepare a day of fun for her siblings without as much as this moment’s notice. She can do this. 

“Oh fiddlesticks,” Combeferre obviously is not allowed to curse in front of the kids. 

“It’s no problem,” she grins at him in return. “Anything for my friends.” 

Going into her temporary little office, she finds the emergency pack R had left for her with a small note: “so your boss didn’t tell you there was a big group of kids” – she really should have been more prepared for something like this to occur. Oh well – too late now. 

“Okay, I have found the special assignments,” she announces to the class as she returns with her pack and a mysterious smile on her face. “Please split into groups of four and I will give each group a special assignment to complete. But you have to work together.” 

With a quick wink to Combeferre, she waits for the group to sort itself out. Only, with any group of kids, there will always be the few who do not quite fit in – and of course that happens with this group as well. There is one girl who is left standing alone when all the groups are chatting, most of them with their backs to her, pointing and whispering like she is not even there to notice them gossiping about her. With a few deep breaths, the girl approaches her and tries to hide the tears forming behind her glasses. If it hadn’t been for the glasses, she could have been ‘Zelma. 

“What’s your name?” she asks the girl, giving her a smile. 

“Fleur,” the girl doesn’t offer her hand, as her name is barely spoken above a whisper. 

A few scoffs from the class break the silence, but that ends quickly with just a stern look from their teacher – and she has never seen Combeferre look this angry. He is incredibly intimidating this way, and the silence coming from the group is absolute and it will not end until Combeferre tells them that it is alright to talk again. 

“Do you like art, Fleur?” she asks the girl, trying to get a read on her. 

“I like Bernini,” the girl holds her head higher the second she gets to talk about art. “My mommy took me to Rome with her once and it looked really cool. They looked like they were real people, and he did that extremely long ago! I wish I was good at art!” 

As Combeferre prepares to lecture on the conditional clause, she just focuses on the young girl who has just lit up when talking about art most of her classmates have never even heard of – and most adults who do go to Rome tend to focus on Michelangelo and everything they can see in Vatican City, rather than visit the Galleria Borghese and stare for hours and hours. Now she really wonders what Fleur will say about her statue. 

“Alright, everyone in the groups,” she motions for Fleur to come stand next to her. “You will be looking for all of the items on your list. You have to write down on what painting these things are – and compare it with the pictures you have on your list. The group who has the most right answers at the end of an hour gets a prize. Now, go!” 

That takes care of the groups, as they will be busy on the scavenger hunt type adventure that R has already set up in the museum for these very occasions. And she will get to talk to Fleur while Combeferre supervises the kids – and she can show the girl her statue. 

“Fleur, I have a special assignment for you,” she lets Combeferre follow the class, her friend giving her a grateful look. “You can do an art critic assignment! I am going to take you to my very favorite statue in the whole museum, and you can write down what you like about it and what you think is weird or not so nice. Can you do that?” 

The girl nods so enthusiastically that she worries about her head snapping right off, but it also serves to make her smile, and to ignite her passion for art just a little bit more – she remembers when she wanted to teach kids about art history. 

“So, here we have the statue called Man Protesting,” she starts a short lecture to make Fleur a bit more familiar with the work. “I want you to write down what you think.” 

All the kids had been given stuff to write with and on, so she is sure that Fleur can start her little project – and maybe she should not have singled the girl out, but forcing her into a group would only make the other kids more resentful of her. 

“Can I talk to you while I write?” Fleur asks, suddenly shy again. 

“Definitely,” she relaxes on the floor, grabbing her sketchpad. “I’ll work on my drawing.” 

When Fleur starts telling stories about her workaholic mother and how her little brother lives with her father, she starts to hide her face in the sketchpad so the little girl won’t see her choking back tears. She hasn’t felt this alone in a good long while. 

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“Did I ever tell you about my siblings?” she ponders, looking at him over her shoulder. 

Of course he remains stubbornly silent, waiting for her to just come out with her story already – he already knows that she is going to tell him the story no matter the response she gets. She just needs to get this off her chest and he is the only one she can trust to listen to it all and keep her secrets safe. 

“I have a younger sister and three younger brothers,” she just keeps talking because this word vomit isn’t stopping any time soon, and he’ll listen for as long as she needs him to – because he has no choice but to listen. “It’s been a while since I last saw them, though. I can’t even remember how old they all are again without doing some serious math. And I’m really bad at anything involving math, so I hardly ever do it.” 

She has not taken math classes since high school, and she never misses it. She is good enough at the basic calculation when it comes to bills – but nobody should ever ask her to do anything more complicated than to count how much money she has left to try and last the rest of the month with. That’s the only math skill she still uses. 

“Okay, now I’ve really reached pathetic,” she tells him, finally owning up to it. “Here I am, still at work long after the museum has closed, and I’m talking to a fucking statue!” 

With those words she actually stands to face him, and seeing him in the very same position that he was in before she is almost startled. Somehow she keeps expecting him to move, just because he is starting to seem so very real to her – she can often predict what he would answer to her many questions, and what he would say about her stories if he ever gained the ability to talk. She is sure that he would have a lot of shit to say about a lot of things, but she’s sure he’d still be her friend, even though he might not always agree with what she thinks of things – and mostly he would disagree with what she thinks of herself. He would think more of her, because he would be her friend. 

Just like he is now – her closest friend. 

“I know what you’d say,” she rolls her eyes at her own behavior, picturing a slight smile on his face as he responds to her. “You’d tell me to talk about this to someone real, and not just you, my statue, my friend. I can’t. I can’t talk about it.” 

He’d huff about this denial – he actually believes that she is stronger than she even thinks she is, and he is her strongest supporter and her closest confidant. He is the only one who could possibly understand – and that is how it will always be. 

“And you might tell me to stop cursing so much,” she teases him, just as she imagines she would tease him if he were real. “And I’d tell you to use contractions like a real person.” 

She can imagine the kind of friendly bickering that would take place with an ease that surprises even her – and she is the one fantasizing about all of this. She can imagine his blue eyes shining with humor even though his face would project an air of disinterest and frustration. Really, that would be because he’d want her to think that he was frustrated at her jokes at his expense – but he’d actually find it a bit funny. 

“Well, remember that I told you my parents used to own an old inn?” she just continues talking to him, because that is something she can do. “I learned my worst bits of language from listening in on the back room of the café.” 

To that she imagines him huffing and saying something about eavesdropping never paying off, and she’d have to counter with the time she only found out her parents were planning on giving her siblings away by listening in on that same back room. She learned a lot of things she was never meant to know, but she will never regret that. 

“I also heard the best stories and learned the worst secrets,” she ponders, thinking about how Jehan must be waiting for her already. “Well, it’s that time again, Statue Boy!” 

With regret in her heart, she walks away from him to turn off the lights in the next-door gallery, knowing she’ll at least walk past him before she leaves. She has made a habit of seeing him before she goes, and she can’t leave without taking one last glance at him and wondering what he’d be like if he ever woke up from this so-called curse that the town claims he is under. She just wonders if he could ever be real.   
If curses exist, why not wishes? Could she not wish for him to be real?

The mere idea of it seems silly to her, because she hardly believes in magic and curses and wishes anymore. The days of fairytales are long over, and harsh reality has gotten its claws into her and it is never letting her go, not ever again. 

“Good night, my friend,” she smiles at him one last time before rushing off. 

She calls him friend so easily, and she is still not quite sure how that has come to pass, because she has only been working at the museum for a week or so, and been in town for two – and here she is confiding in a statue and thinking of wishes. 

Honestly, she should focus on her flesh and blood friends; even though she has taken great care not to tell them her last name, or anything else that would give them any clues about who she is and where she comes from. She hates talking about these things, and were it not for her ever-listening statue, she would never have anyone to tell these stories to. She would never speak of this to anyone who could understand. 

It is almost like having a pet to talk to: someone who will listen, but never respond, and this person has no possible way of telling anyone her secrets. 

What was that line she once heard on that cop show? Something about how it’s always best to not tell anyone about your secrets, but second best is telling just one person about it – and there is no third best. She will stick with the best – and not even second best because it is not like her statue can reveal her secrets. 

“Jehan, you home?” she yells as soon as she reaches the house. 

She just cannot seem to call it home – she has not had a home since that old inn was taken away from her family. And this house is just a temporary place to crash; she is already thinking about where she will go next. Sure, she might regret leaving her statue behind, but she got what she came for: she got her inspiration back. If her inspiration is centered entirely around drawing shirtless men with golden curls, that is just a matter of her personal preference and it has very little to do with these stupid stories about his curse and about the brave man with golden hair. It has nothing to do with him at all; really it was all about admiring the artistry about the statue. 

“There’s dinner for you in the microwave,” Jehan shouts back from the living room. 

Judging by his tone of voice, her real friend is still suffering from a pretty bad case of being heart-broken. R has called the house several times over the course of the last week, but he either sounded very happy about what he was doing, or he sounded like he was under the influence of something. Either way, Jehan was pissed at the latter, and depressed about the former – he wanted R to pine away for him, in her opinion. 

And R really was not obliging Jehan in any way. 

“Thanks,” she calls out to him, testing the temperature of the food. 

So, it’s somewhere between doable and really fucking cold, so she kind of has to use the microwave – that’s what she gets for hanging out at the museum and talking to her statue friend instead of coming back to have dinner with her real friend. Her real friend who is legitimately upset about their other friend – and they should really talk about getting R some help or fixing something at least. 

The microwave beeps, pulling her out of her thoughts again, leaving her determined to act instead of thinking about things all the time. 

“How much of an idiot was he today?” she plops down on the couch with her grub. 

“He was high again,” Jehan actually sounds broken at this point, voice cracking with the effort to hold back tears. “I think it might have been cocaine this time.” 

Fuck! She keeps cursing under her breath, because if R keeps going like this he might do something that they cannot bring him back from – something without an undo button that she can try to press with Jehan. There is nothing they can do if he does stupid things and if he does not want to be helped. If he does not want to stop using, if that is the only way he can deal with his problems… She can say whatever she wants, and Jehan can plead with him and cry, but he won’t listen unless he really wants to change. 

“Okay, so he was a really big idiot,” she goes for the understatement. 

“You could say that again,” Jehan is almost huffy with her. 

The melodrama has gotten a bit tiring to her, but she continues to try and accept these things about Jehan. He is a lovely fellow when he is having a good day, all light jokes and banter – but she never knows how to deal with him when he is not having a good day, when everything she says is cause for dramatics and he makes terrifying statements that leave her just as worried about him as she is about R. 

“How are you?” she decides to ask, and she waits for the dramatic answer. 

“I want to pull my blankets over my head and make the world disappear,” Jehan replies. 

Oh dear, it is definitely one of those days, one of the days where she is torn between listening to whatever her friend has to say and hoping that is enough to make things better – or just to escape from this drama and move on to the next town. She has never had to deal with anyone’s mood swings but her own, and she finds it particularly hard to adjust to Jehan’s frequently changing moods. He changes like quicksilver. 

“I can’t do too much about that,” she says just to fill the silence while she thinks. 

“I know,” Jehan has basically dismissed her already, “but thanks for listening.” 

She is left with her mouth open, trying to find words to make him feel better, but he has apparently decided that it would be better for him to drown in his sorrows, rather than to actually try to make himself feel better. Well, she will not hear of that. 

“I wasn’t done yet,” she protests, not having any of this bullshit. 

There may not be any kind of quick and easy and painless solution to Jehan’s problems, but she now sees that she cannot leave him alone with these dark thoughts. She can at least attempt to get him to see a little light in the darkness. Even if she has to create that light all on her own, she will just keep trying until she succeeds. 

“What?” Jehan seems surprised that she has not left yet. 

Is he that used to people leaving him when he gets these moods that he starts expecting people to leave? Sure, she has not always known how to deal with him when he gets like this, but she has always at least offered her help before leaving him alone – because it seemed that was what he wanted. He never acted as if he was particularly happy to have her beside him, even though it has been just the two of them for a week now. 

“Do you want to talk?” she tries to offer more help. 

“I’m done talking about him,” Jehan shrugs. “I just want to wallow in it for a while.” 

One of these days she is going to lock Jehan and R into a room together and not let them out until they’ve either had wicked good sex, or killed each other. Apparently that sort of thing works in the movies, and she has no other ideas to fix this thing. 

“Want me to put on a movie?” she tries desperately to keep him talking. 

“Moulin Rouge,” is all that Jehan says in response. 

“Ouch,” she almost winces when she remembers the movie. “That’s a killer.” 

It is an extremely over-the-top drama-fest – and now she is wondering why she has not seen Jehan watching it before. It is exactly the type of thing he would love, with flashing lights and dancers and poets and music and courtesans and romance until a dying day. 

“But it’s romantic,” Jehan sounds wistful and just a little pained. 

Romance like this does not exist in real life – and she would not want it to, because it is all heightened reality and no substance. She dies so soon, before they can experience the real day-to-day life together, when the first thrill of the affair has worn off and routine and boredom starts to set in. Are the flames that burn shortest always the ones that burn the brightest? It seems to be the case in all the movies – and she doubts that things are any different here in the real world. 

“I’ll go get it,” she practically runs to the other side of the room. 

“Thank you,” his feelings of appreciation seem genuine this time. 

She pulls the movie in question from the unorganized pile of DVDs – honestly, there is just no system in this house and she wishes someone would bring some kind of order back in this place. Still, she knows that the person in question will not be her.   
Jehan takes the disc from her and puts it into the player, rushing through the DVD’s menu to just start the damn movie already – he seems very impatient, at least. 

“I don’t get this movie,” she blurts it out as soon as the music starts playing. 

Yep, she has just ruined Jehan’s entire movie watching experience for the night, but she just cannot help herself. The bright lights and the fast dancing, the whole damn story – it is all just too ridiculous, and too over-the-top to ever be considered real. So she cannot believe the love story either – it seems as ridiculous as the rest of the movie. 

“Why not?” Jehan’s tone of voice is calm enough. 

“This whole idea about romantic love lasting forever,” she just tells him. 

Eventually, when the first wave of attraction and being in love starts to fade, and romance becomes just another thing to be done before bedtime, and it all becomes a sad routine – that is when feelings die and real life steps in. Nothing lasts in love; sometimes not even family can be trusted to love you forever. 

“It’s ridiculous,” Jehan completely floors her with his response. 

“Exactly,” she manages to say. “So why watch this?” 

She cannot even imagine why someone would want to keep being reminded of these things that would never happen in the real world. With a movie like this one, the contrast between the splendored beauty of love in movie and the harsh reality only seems all the more sharp and vivid. It makes the wake up call so much worse. 

“Because it looks beautiful,” the wistfulness in her friend’s voice nearly breaks her. 

“There’s that,” is all that she can think of to say. 

Sure, these visions of beauty feed into Jehan’s ideal of frills and fripperies, so she can let him stare at these dancers on screen to keep the feelings of real life away. Since she does not know what to say anymore, the music on screen can be used to fill the silence. 

“And it’s a good way to keep writing,” Jehan ends the silence. “It’s almost inspiring.” 

Here they are, hanging on the couch watching a sad movie and commiserating about the downside of love – this is something that friends do, and it is something she has not had the chance to do in a very long time. She has not had that many friends, and especially not the kind of friends she would watch movies with – especially not dramatic ones. 

“We need wine for this,” the shots of the Moulin Rouge are making her dizzy. 

“There’s a nice bottle of red on the counter just for the occasion,” her friend grins. 

Oh yes, that will suit the ache and the frustration quite nicely. 

“You read my mind,” she grins, hopping off the couch within seconds. 

They make a toast to better days silently, just touching glasses and staring into each other’s eyes for a second. They turn back to face the screen almost simultaneously, right on time to look at the ridiculous hijinks when Christian is mistaken for the Duke. 

“Oh come on,” they both scream at the umpteenth ‘coincidence’. 

If anyone who happens to be in the neighborhood hears them singing “Come What May” at the top of their lungs less than two hours later, they will swear that the wine was entirely to blame for all of it – especially the drunken imitation she does of the Green Fairy, and the way Jehan attempts to speak like the Argentinian. 

Blame that on the alcohol!

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Her hangover is mostly gone by the end of her next shift at the museum, and the amount of visitors was significantly lower than it had been in the days before. She worries that the town has tired of her and that she will be sent on her way before R even comes back from his extended visit – his sister’s party has come and gone, but her friend has yet to return from the big city. She would worry about him being in a gutter somewhere if he had not called earlier – Jehan messaged to let her know. 

When R does get back, he can expect to get his ass kicked. There will be no mercy. 

“You’d help me kick his ass, wouldn’t you?” she asks of her closest friend. 

Because no matter how many movie nights she and Jehan may have in the future, somehow he still cannot compare to her statue – the friend who knows her and supports her and does not judge her in any way. Her statue would just smile kindly at her and never say bad things unless he was teasing her. Though he would probably help her hold R down so Jehan could land a few punches – not that Jehan would need any help with that. Her new friend is scary good at several kinds of martial arts. She figured that out after some very drunken demonstrations the night before. 

“You’ll always help me,” she tells him, smiling at him. 

She wants to stay with him some more, and tell him about that one time that Azelma hid her father’s favorite hat – it all ended with the man having sat on it several times and not figuring out where it was until her mother yanked it out from under him. It is one of the few silly stories she remembers from her childhood, and she is in the mood for laughter and silliness at this point. Moulin Rouge took all the need for any kind of drama away. 

At this point, she can almost hear his deep voice promising that he will support her and be with her no matter what – yes, she has given him a deep voice along with golden curls and blue eyes. Also, he is currently begging for her to give him a shirt or something – he is tired of being ogled and being shirtless all of the time. 

“You wake up and I’ll personally pick out a shirt for you,” the break in her voice is just because of a sore throat. “And I promise it’ll be something you’ll hate.” 

She thinks red would suit him best, a nice deep red that will show his strength and vibrancy to everyone who sees him. It would be a bit morbid to dress him in the color of blood, but she can see him wearing a red coat in her mind’s eye. 

“Hold on,” she stops his response in her head. “It’s my phone.” 

There is no ringtone echoing through the silence of the museum, just a faint buzzing sound coming from her pocket – it is barely enough for her to take notice, but she could feel the vibration against her body and she never gets calls on the damn thing so she suddenly finds herself understandably on edge. 

“Fuck,” she cusses when she sees the caller ID.

Getting a call from this number has never meant something good. Now she wishes more than ever that her statue was real enough to hold her and soothe her while she listens to her life falling apart just a little bit more. If only her friend were real!

“Hi sweetie,” her voice is cracking already, trying to be gentle. 

“Fuck you and your sweetie,” her sister’s voice is harsh. “Where are you?”

It has been months since the last call, and all ‘Zelma ever does in these calls is yell about how she should not have gone to college even though she got a scholarship – she should not have left her siblings behind to secure her own future, according to her younger sister. She was not allowed to take the chance to get away from her father and the dark memories of her mother – not even if she was taking the scholarship to be able to provide for her siblings later on. 

No, she cannot keep thinking about this. She can’t take the reminders. 

“I’m working,” she tries frantically to explain. “I’ve been working all day. I have a job now, for a little while, and they expect me to be here.” 

She thinks of dates and weeks and days and she cannot remember a single reason why ‘Zelma would be calling her in a huff. Her brothers’ birthdays are not near nor have they just passed, and Azelma’s birthday is not until next fall. There is nothing that would merit this angry phone call – she has never forgotten about her siblings, and she certainly has not started now. Even though Azelma will not let her see any of them. 

“It’s his birthday and you forgot,” the accusing tone hurts like nothing else ever has. 

“Papa can go burn in hell,” she snipes back, “birthday or no birthday.” 

With that, she ends the call from hell and wonders why ‘Zelma has always been so quick to forgive Father for everything when she experienced all the same things – they were children together in that terrible house after the inn was taken away, and they knew the belt and a variety of weapons very well. Still, ‘Zelma will always forgive. 

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” she tells her friend, choking on her feelings. “That was my sister. She – she – she still lives with our father.” 

Stupid ‘Zelma to get so caught up in Father’s ploys that she will not leave even after everything that Father did to them. Her sister is too caught up in their father’s schemes, and yet Azelma is being treated as if she is doing everything right, while everyone treats her as if she just left everyone to die. Her family is gone from her. 

“I’m thinking bad thoughts now,” she confesses softly, but he will hear her whispers because he always does. “Azelma hates me, and I haven’t been much of a sister to my brothers in years. They probably don’t even remember me anymore.” 

At this point, she is way too close to crying. She has been carrying these burdens on her own for years, too afraid that people would judge her for leaving her siblings behind with an abusive father and memories of a harsh and cruel mother. And people would judge, she knows that much – and why would they not? It was a terrible thing to do; leaving her defenseless little brothers with her father and his crowd. 

“And I’m a shit friend,” she steps in closer to him, looking into his eyes and praying for him to smile down at her and comfort her. “I only talk to you. I never talk to real people.” 

Real people talk back – and that just makes it sound like she is so terribly in love with her own voice, and she really isn’t. But she needs a supportive response that she doubts she would get from anyone but him – her statue and her friend. 

It’s time to go though, time to close the museum, turn off the lights and head back to a melancholy Jehan and R’s empty room. She’d rather sleep at the foot of her statue. 

“I wish you were real,” she almost reaches out for him, but she stops herself in time. 

Turning back from him to move into the next gallery feels so difficult at this point – she just wants to see him wake up, and unclench his muscles from that same old position he’s been in for all these years. She wants him to wake up and smile at her and give her that friend she’s been waiting for – but at the same time that idea is terrifying because then he would be able to talk about her secrets. 

But somehow she feels that with him, she would be able to risk that. 

“Please be real,” another whisper before she turns away from him. 

The lights in the other galleries are still on, so she makes her rounds in the rest of the museum, making sure there are no stray people or animals around – nothing that could trip the alarms she is supposed to turn on as she leaves. She finds each hall and each gallery completely empty, so she starts turning off the lights, one by one until she finds herself back in her favorite gallery. 

She does not even notice that something is off, at first. There is a light flickering in the back, so she gives the old bulb a few twists until it works properly again – the damn thing always acts up at night. She picks up a few guides that fell to the floor during her struggle with the Bulb of Doom – and that is when she feels it. Something feels wrong, and she trusts her gut feelings, even though they have occasionally led to some dubious decisions. Still, she would always trust her feelings. 

Her eyes scan the gallery until she sees a tiny bit of movement from the corner of her eye – and nothing is supposed to move in an empty gallery at night. So she turns around slowly, hands forming fists as she ponders where the nearest weapon would be. 

But when she turns around and faces the place where her statue is supposed to be, she instead finds a half-naked man crumpled on the ground. His face is scrunched up in severe pain, and he barely seems to know that she is there – giving her enough time to run away. But the moment she thinks of running, he looks up, blue eyes boring into hers and golden curls tangled up on his head – and she is lost for breath, a silent scream trapped in her throat.


	4. Chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has woken.

She blinks a few times; just to be sure that what she is seeing is actually there. 

In the place where her statue is supposed to be now lies a half-naked man, with his eyes wide open, his arms held up in a defensive position, and breathing heavily. Her instincts tell her to run, and as a woman who firmly believes that one's instincts are always to be followed, she very nearly bolts into the office to lock herself in. But then she notices him huddled on the ground, staring at her in fear and desperation.

He is blinking rapidly, obviously not used to the light from the overhead lighting, and he holds his hands over his head as if he fears an attack from her – even though she has done nothing but look him in the eyes. He looks terrified of everything, but she seems to be the source of most of his fear, as he occasionally glances at her but looks away as soon as she notices. Shivers are wracking his body so heavily that she is starting to get really worried about his health as well as his state of mind. 

His form is almost animalistic, reminding her of a feline trying to protect himself from the dangerous predator cornering him. She almost thinks that he will start hissing soon, blowing himself up to appear more threatening, just like she has seen cats do. 

Though, him being a cat does not quite fit at this point; no he is not trying to make himself scary and intimidating like a cat does – this is him cowering in fear like an attacked dog. She had to rescue a dog once, and she remembers this well. The poor creature was being attacked by the neighborhood children, and the little shits were actually throwing stones at the stray. She stopped that in its tracks – those kids are scared of her to this very day – and took the dog home. She had to hide the poor fellow while she made sure he got healthy, and her Strider was gone before her father could find him. She took home her stray, but she did not get to keep him for very long. 

“Hello,” she is really trying not to spook him too much. “I am not trying to hurt you. Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?”

It changes nothing; her words only make him shiver more, and he seems to be trying to get more distance between him and her. This guy is really afraid of everything about her, and she tries to inspect herself from head to toe to attempt to figure out just what about her is scaring him so much. Her long dark hair should only serve to remind him that she is a woman – but she doubts that he has a deep-seated fear of females. 

“How the fuck did you get here?” she finally asks. 

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he starts talking, his voice hoarse as if he has not used it in ages. “Please! Can you tell me where I am?” 

Is he just tripping balls? There is something seriously wrong with this guy. He still seems disoriented and she is getting kind of impatient with this little act when it is starting to seem more and more likely that alcohol or drugs are the cause of this ridiculous behavior he is exhibiting. She has not heard a lot of stories about criminal activities in this town – not even drunk and disorderly behavior. Perhaps this will be the first case. 

“You’ve obviously broken into the museum,” she is still debating running for the office. 

“Yes, this is a museum,” he sounds out of it in a way.

That is when she realizes that her statue actually appears to be gone – and she is quite sure that this asshole has somehow taken it. Sure, she was vaguely aware of the disappearance of her friend, but she has not been focused on that, rather on the unwashed idiot who might be under the influence of something really potent. This fucked up dick has actually taken her only friend away. 

“What did you do with my statue?” she is interrogating him. 

“Your statue?” he speaks in a rather pensive manner in response. “I was not aware that I was yours, mademoiselle. You might not believe this, but I am the statue.”

Now she has decided: this guy is not right in the head. If this was the big city she would be calling the police and telling them a guy escaped from the psych ward – but here in Musain, the nearest hospital is about three towns over and to get from there to the museum on foot this guy would have to be really dedicated to finding this place. Also, there are museums on the way there, just none as interesting as this one. 

“You’re a psychopath, right?” she is thinking hard, trying to figure out where the nearest weapon is. “You destroyed the statue and now you’re here to kill me.” 

“No, mademoiselle Éponine, I actually am the statue,” the guy proceeds to freak her out more, voice hoarse. “I am he, your friend.” 

Her theory about him escaping from the psych ward seems about as likely as him just being high on something at this point, but the creepiest part of all of this is that he somehow knows her name. This is starting to seem somehow personal and with her background that is never a good idea – there are too many people who could hate her for really stupid reasons and she can’t defend herself endlessly and hope for the best. So yes, she might be a little scared and more than a little wary, but she’ll power on. 

“How do you know my name?” she questions, poker face on. 

“You told me your name,” he looks at her tentatively before quickly looking away. 

How could she tell him her name since she does not even know him? He is beyond crazy if he actually believes that he is her missing statue. She knows that this is what he is alluding to, but she also knows just how ridiculous the mere idea of it is. 

“You obviously heard someone mention my name,” she says. “Statues don’t come to life.” 

As she is a self-respecting student of art history, she is fully aware of the myth of Pygmalion, but she is also very much aware that the story of Pygmalion is a myth and that none of the lessons from myths have bearing on real life. Otherwise there would be more trouble with godlike creatures and people fucking swans and other animals or inanimate objects. The gods be crazy – just about as crazy as this guy. 

“Normal statues do not come to life, indeed,” he corrects her gently. 

Well, they can agree on that part, but she doubts that there really is any kind of statue that can’t be considered normal because it comes to life! That shit just does not exist, no matter what he is saying. There is no magic in the real world, and there are no fairy godmothers that exist solely to grant wishes and make everything better. There is no such thing as magic and statues do not come to life in the real world. 

“But you’re not a normal statue?” she is skeptical of that. 

“I was a flesh-and-blood man once,” he keeps saying weird shit, “before I was cursed.” 

And there are curses too now? Curses are not real; they are just superstitious stories that people believe because they are desperate for an explanation – something that her father would always use to his advantage. She despises talk of curse. 

“You don’t actually think that I believe that curse bullshit?” she raises an eyebrow. 

“You use such foul language, mademoiselle Éponine,” he appears to be chiding her. 

Oh, honestly, this psych ward escapee thinks that he gets to lecture her about stuff when he is the one claiming that he is a cursed man who was an actual marble statue until about ten minutes ago. This is not her friend – this is just another piece of evidence proving that – because her friend would be kind to her instead of lecturing her about her use of profane language at this point. There is a half-naked dude in the museum after dark claiming to be a cursed statue and she is supposed to say “shoot”?

“And you talk like you have a stick up your ass,” she has no patience for this. “Now could you please either try to kill me or get back to the psych ward? I have plans for the night.” 

Those plans are really just hanging out on the couch with Jehan and watching yet another ridiculous movie while drinking a bottle of wine each and pondering about why movies appear to be so much more interesting than real life. They will curse at R and why he still has not come back, but it will never change anything. 

Because that is just what life is like. 

Oh, she sounds so tough with her talk of her plans and making him into less of a thing to be feared – really she can almost hear her heart pound over the sound of her own voice, and her feet are poised to run away with any kind of sudden move from his end. 

“Are you going to call your sister back?” he asks, and it’s like everything stops. 

“How do you know about my sister?” she approaches him, still so wary. 

How could he possibly know about her sister? She has not told anyone about her except her statue friend. It is possible that this jerk was hiding somewhere getting ready to make his move when she got Azelma’s call – but the pained look on his face at her refusal, that look seems so very familiar to her. It is the same look that the statue was wearing back when he was just made of marble and just her friend. Still, just the idea that this mess of a man is her statue come to life is unbelievable to her. 

“Mademoiselle Éponine, please,” his voice cracks with those words, sounding like he is at the end of his rope, and she finds herself reaching out for him. 

She is standing in front of him now, as he is still sitting in a crumpled heap on the floor, as if he has not quite figured out how to work his limbs. Her hand is inches away from his shoulder, and just when she has finally decided that he deserves comfort, no matter who he turns out to be, he flinches away from her touch for a second.

“I’m sorry,” she is quick to apologize. 

“I am the one who should apologize,” he looks up at her with his deep blue eyes. 

So she tries again, gently placing her hand on his shoulder and trying to see if he is okay with this, hoping that he will at least accept this small gesture of comfort. 

“Who are you?” she tries again, not knowing what else to say. 

“I really am your statue, mademoiselle Éponine,” he speaks with those blue eyes still boring into her, unnerving her greatly, “and I don’t know how to prove it to you. I can tell you about your siblings; you do not remember how old they are exactly. I was awake for that. I heard everything you told me.”

The odds of him listening in on all of her conversations with the statue are so very slim that she is almost starting to believe him, and she has to physically shake her head to stop herself from telling him that she will believe this outlandish story. Because believing this story goes against everything she told herself ever since she figured out that fairy tales were not real and just would not come true. 

“I cannot think,” she tells him. 

Shivers are wracking her body and for a second she thinks that the madness of the night has finally gotten to her – until she realizes that the tremors originate from her left hand, the one on the man’s shoulder. He is actually the one shivering, and it is getting worse from what she can feel. This man needs help, because it is obvious that something has happened to him – at this point she thinks that if he were a statue less than an hour ago, he would be suffering from some serious aftereffects. Nothing in him would be used to being a living and breathing human. But no, those thoughts are stupid. 

He is just a man, nothing supernatural or magical about him, just some weirdo – who happens to know everything about her. God, is it really true?

Her breaths are coming in quick spurts, half stuck in her chest and half desperately trying to throw out the stupid thoughts with each and every breath. The hand that is not touching him fidgets and she cannot seem to control it, so she looks for a distraction to focus on instead. She finds it in him, still huddled on the floor with only her hand on his shoulder to stabilize him. He is trying to move, but it looks like it is hurting him. 

“Do you need help?” she sees the pained look on his face, even though he tries to hide it. 

“I do not think I can stand up unaided,” he admits. 

She has absolutely no idea how to go about this, and she is sure that shows, but he does not chide or deride her. He gently places her other hand on his other shoulder and places both his hands on her shoulders in return, hoisting him up until he is on his knees. They are not touch in any kind of personal places, which she suspects is his intention. 

“You can hold on a bit more if you want,” she breaks it to him gently. 

“It would not be proper, mademoiselle Éponine,” he slowly shakes his head no. 

She slings his arm over her shoulder anyway, and prepares to hoist him up. 

There is a creak in the distance – the old doors just do that sometimes, but it still freaks her out so much, and it makes her think of the possibility of them being discovered like this and the amount of terrible things that would lead to. They will get arrested and they will lock her up for being an art thief and she will never be able to get near a museum again. Just because this guy claims he’s a cursed statue and he cannot seem to move fast enough for the two of them to make a decent getaway. 

Or maybe the creaking sound was just the door, but still. 

“Just think of me as a nurse,” she tries to make it better for him somehow. “We have to leave here. People might come in and see us, and I still have no reasonable explanation for the missing statue. We have to be gone when they find out!” 

Somehow he is starting to understand the urgency here, because he is slowly raising himself up on shivering legs, all the while holding on to her and leaning on her. He is almost her height now, and now he is her height, and he has passed her, and he is still getting taller – about four or five inches taller than her ends up being his full height. He is just about six feet of half-naked chiseled male and this is not what she should be thinking about, but holy shit he looks pretty good without a shirt. Pretty good is actually an understatement – she is really going to need to find him a shirt to wear. 

“Can you walk?” she pleads, looking around in every direction. 

“Not very fast,” he says, taking a first hesitant step in the direction of the exit. 

Oh, they make quite a pair like this, especially with her moving to walk next to him, keeping him moving from the side. She knows that he will not let her carry the brunt of his weight – even though that would be wiser – but she is still helping him so that he can keep walking. They are moving inches at a time, but at least they are moving and at least they are going in the right direction. 

God, she really wants to be out of here already, but she cannot leave him behind!

“Are you really my statue?” she blurts out as they exit the gallery. 

“I really am the statue,” he stops to look her in the eyes. 

Those eyes, those deep blue eyes that convey the same amount of emotion her statue as always done. He is flinching at shadows and trembling pretty hard, but he is trying to make her listen by staring into her eyes and showing her how many other feelings are hiding underneath his terrified exterior. 

“Don’t stop walking,” she admonishes him. 

Never stop walking, never blink, and never let them catch you – she is sure that her mind has mixed up some of her fathers lessons and some random things she has heard over the years, but she is beyond the point of caring. She is somewhat scared and really paranoid about absolutely everything and reason has pretty much left the building. She wishes she and her statue could move away as fast as reason abandoned her. 

“Do you believe me?” he questions. “Do you believe that I am he, mademoiselle?” 

Why would she believe that? How can she believe that? How can she even be thinking about this when she should be thinking about getting away from here? Honestly, her first priority should be to dump him on the lobby chair a few steps away while she locks up and gets him a damn shirt to wear. His bare chest is really fucking distracting. 

“I don’t know what to believe,” she tells him. “I do know that I am going to need you to sit down in that chair while I lock up and find you a shirt to wear.” 

Her new stray – damn it, that comparison is a bit too apt – sits down like a good boy and she practically runs away from him trying to get herself under control before having to face him again. It is not just the bare chest on display; it is also the confusion that surrounds his appearance in her life. He cannot be the only friend that she has; and the idea of it is ridiculous and appealing at the same time. Her head hurts. 

She throws the lost and found box onto a random table and starts digging through it, hoping to find a shirt that is big enough for her stray – finally finding a deep red shirt that should hopefully fit him. Most of the clothes left behind belong to the school kids who come on excursions, so this shirt is an exception to a rule. And even this shirt might be a bit of a stretch – pun not really intended, but reluctantly accepted. 

After tossing the box back where it belongs she starts locking the office – which is the only room that she had not yet locked when she found the statue. Now she no longer has an excuse to stay away from him and that makes her very nervous. 

“I found you something to wear,” she speaks softly when she reaches him. 

He still jumps at the sound of her voice, sounding so suddenly in the silence surrounding the both of them. It seems as if he has withdrawn in on himself again in her absence, and she curses herself for leaving him alone in this unfamiliar environment where there is nothing that he can recognize. Wait, does that say something about her believing him in this idea that he was cursed years ago? She somehow has started to believe that he is actually from another time and he needs her help right now. 

“I’m so sorry,” she is quick to apologize to him for startling him. 

“It is quite alright, mademoiselle Éponine,” he reassures her. “Now, you have something for me to cover myself with? I find that I would quite like to be covered up.” 

The formal talk still throws her a little, but she knows that she is just going to have to teach him some excellent street slang and watch him trip over the unfamiliar terms because he has never seen those words before. She does not think she will have lived until she has heard him either cuss or use contemporary slang. 

After a few seconds of fumbling, he stands up from the chair on his own. 

“I hope this fits,” she hands him the red shirt. 

“This is a lovely color,” he remarks before turning away from her. 

Oh, he probably wants some privacy while he gets changed, but she is going to keep ogling his bare chest for the few seconds that she can still do so. The play of the muscles on his back is particularly interesting as he sticks his arms through the unfamiliar shirt and attempts to quickly pull it over his head. There is no quick about this, because the tight shirt does not have much give to it, leaving it just about big enough to fit him. The fabric clings to his skin in an almost indecent way – really, now the universe has just decided to start torturing her. This guy is unfairly attractive. 

Still, that is not what she should be worrying about at this point in time. 

“I am as decent as I can be at this point,” he does not sound pleased. 

“It was all I could find that would fit you,” she tries to form some sort of apology even though she has absolutely no regrets about this. “Now, I think we should leave the museum before someone finds us here. We really don’t want to get caught.” 

He nods with a ridiculous amount of gravitas and starts shuffling in the direction of the exit, displaying the typical male symptom of being too proud to ask for help even though it is very much necessary. She knows he will never ask, but when she catches a tremble in his legs, she walks up next to him, slings his arm over her shoulder and helps him walk as if there is nothing wrong with it – which is the honest truth. 

“Where are we going, mademoiselle Éponine?” he asks in a soft whisper. 

“We are going to my attic,” she does not know where else to take him. “I officially rent the place from my friend, but I have a separate bathroom and there is enough room for you to stay there without them having to find out about this immediately.” 

The two blocks to Jehan’s place has never felt like such a huge distance before, but she has never been this paranoid before, and she was never carrying around a former statue before. No, she still does not believe that it is actually he. 

“How will we enter without your friends noticing me?” he whispers. 

“You’ll have to be really quiet,” she tells him. “I’m going to check if Jehan or R are in sight and we will go upstairs together so you can hide. I can always tell them that I am not feeling well and that I need to get some sleep. The excuse won’t be the problem – the creaky stairs are going to make it very clear I’m not the only one going upstairs.” 

Oh, she is going to get some seriously invasive questions about that, but she can deal with that when it actually happens. Right now she just needs to find him a safe place to hide, and her attic room is the only place that she can think of to hide him. It is the only place that only she has access to and that she can lock behind her when necessary. 

Now that they are only a few feet away from their destination, she is getting more and more worried about being caught, taking quick looks all around her. Her new friend has hardly even noticed how paranoid she is at this point, being too busy frowning about their future living situation. This is definitely making a case for him being out of his time. 

“It is not proper for us to share a room,” he argues. 

“Honestly, times have changed,” she gives him a quick eye roll. “I could always tell them I’m having a guest over. They’re going to assume I’m doing you, but I am not going to care too much about that. Doing you means fucking you, by the way. Having sex.” 

He appears to be fighting a blush at her last words, which just makes her even more interested in thoroughly embarrassing him by always mentioning this very topic and using her filthiest vocabulary. She is going to remember this for the future. 

“I’m going in,” she warns him, unlocking the front door. “Anyone home?”

“I’m in my office,” Jehan shouts from his basement lair. 

If Jehan is in the basement, it means he is writing, which is supposed to be a good sign, so she can proceed upstairs without any guilt for not checking up on him. She has too much to think about already without adding Jehan’s R-related troubles – and she knows that sounds selfish, but she is freaking out already, and she would rather do that behind the door to her room. Until then, she takes deep breaths and takes the occasional looks at her stray, who is now confidently walking on his own. 

“I’m going straight to bed,” she shouts, motioning for the guy to keep quiet. 

She tiptoes up the stairs and waits for him to follow her. There are few creaks from the old stairs but there are enough sounds to make it obvious to Jehan that she is currently less than alone. She wants to kick herself for it, but there is nothing else that she can do except to be as quiet as she can and to just keep moving. She has to keep moving, keep moving, there is no stopping and no blinking and no more looking back. 

The attic room is just a few steps away and she can already feel herself falling apart, but she forces herself to hold it together for just a little bit longer, if only for those few more steps until she reaches her safe haven. 

“Almost there,” she mutters almost under her breath. 

Judging by the presence she feels moving behind her, her new friend is still following right behind her. Good, because she does not want to be the one to explain to Jehan why the stranger who looks ridiculously like one of the statues in the museum has found his way into their house. That cannot be explained, because she still does not understand it herself. She still does not believe it, because it just cannot be. 

Statues do not turn into people and curses are only superstitions. Statues do not turn into people and curses are only superstitions. She moves her lips to her new mantra, and she just keeps going. Statues do not turn into people and curses are only superstitions. 

“Are we going inside?” the not-statue speaks, shaking her from her thoughts. 

“Any second now,” she clenches her teeth and unlocks the door. 

Her hands are shaking, but she is refusing to let the not-statue see that, so she holds the key for a little bit longer than necessary before finally pulling it out of the lock and opening the door. Her hands still shake but at least now she can cross her arms and hopes that this hides just how much all of this has affected her. 

There is a man in her room who claims to be a cursed statue and she just helped him escape the authorities. Oh God, this could ruin the rest of her life. 

“There is only one bed,” he announces when he is done judging her lodgings. 

Seriously? This is what he chooses to focus on?


	5. Chapter five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a night...

Her breaths are coming faster and she locks the door behind them. 

“I will sleep on the couch,” she tells him, dismissing his concern. 

She cannot worry about the damn bed or the damn couch when she cannot think. Her arms are once again crossed over her chest to keep from wringing them and to keep from letting him see the shivers wracking her body. Tears are starting to sting her eyes and her breathing is heavy – it feels as if there is something heavy sitting on her chest and it is not coming off. Oh God, what is she going to do?

Within seconds she finds herself pacing and wringing her shaking hands, despite her best intentions. She moves from the bed to the couch and back, and quickly changes directions when she almost careens into the not-statue himself. 

“Mademoiselle, are you quite alright?” he asks her, looking and sounding worried. 

“Of course not,” she hisses at him, too worried that Jehan might hear to let out the scream bubbling up in her throat. “I was working all day and then all of a sudden just when I am ready to leave the entire world just goes nuts because my favorite statue in the museum disappears and then there’s this guy who says he is my statue!” 

For some reason she cannot stop calling the statue hers, both in her mind and out loud, because that is just what it feels like. All of the people she has met, all of Jehan and R’s friends have called the statue hers as a teasing joke, and she guesses it just stuck with her enough to start using it herself. Also, she does not know what else to call it. 

“Is there anything I can do to aid you?” he asks, sounding like a real gentleman. 

“You can stop forcing me to believe that you are the statue,” she says in response. “That is just not how the world works, and this is all much too weird to understand.” 

The more he insists that he is the statue, the more she is going to attempt to deny the very possibility. She needs time to deal with everything, and to deal with his appearance in her life. She needs to make sense of him and his claims. 

“I am he,” he vows, and she sighs, “but I will stay silent on this topic until the morning.” 

“I appreciate that,” she can’t find the energy to smile at him. 

Everything hurts all of a sudden and she just wants to strip off most of her clothes and fall into bed – but that is not happening either. She promised that she would sleep on the couch and she will have to be decently covered in front of him lest she gives him a heart attack on his first day back to the land of the living. There are already too many things she could do that might scare him off, and while she is a little bit tempted to try some of them, she kind of wants to figure out the mystery surrounding him. 

“I have no nightclothes for you,” she apologizes. “I can try and borrow some from my friends tomorrow, but for tonight this will have to do.” 

“Thank you mademoiselle Éponine,” he almost bows for her. 

She is getting more and more convinced that this guy is indeed a relic from a time long past. His manners seem outdated and so does his manner of speaking, but that is still relatively easy to fake. It is the way that he startles at absolutely everything that might be the most convincing to her, because that is not something that one can keep faking without giving themselves away eventually. Somehow she is starting to believe that he is really who he claims to be, no matter how ridiculous that sounds. 

“Please just call me Éponine,” she pleads with him, not wanting to explain this quirk to Jehan and R. “People here only use first names when addressing people their own age.” 

And now she is actually considering introducing him to Jehan and R? She really needs to go to sleep before she does something that she will regret. If she can just turn off the lights and forget that he will be sleeping in her bed and that her sheets will soon smell of him. No, these are things she must forget as well. She just needs to sleep. 

“I will endeavor to remember that, Éponine,” he responds. “I used to be called Enjolras.” 

He gives her no first name, because she is smart enough to realize that he has only given her a last name; that he only trusts her to know his last name. She has told him everything and here he is keeping secrets from her and looking haunted. There is a darkness in him that should scare her more than it does, but this is not the time to dwell too much on that. This is the time to sleep, so she pulls out the couch and turns off the lights before finally curling up on the couch with a crappy fleece blanket. 

“Good night Enjolras,” she tells the man in her bed. 

“Good night Éponine,” he says in return. 

It is almost disgustingly domestic. 

e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e

She does not know what time it is when she wakes up, and she has barely realized that she is sleeping on the pullout couch before she tumbles off the side and ends up on the floor, breathing heavy and wondering why she is awake in the first place. It is still dark outside, so there is no reason for her to be out of her temporary bed just yet. 

Until she hears a sound and her heart starts beating faster. The sounds are coming from her bed, and because she has not left in any other possibly magical beings, she is going to assume that it is Enjolras making these sounds. 

There are labored breaths and sounds of his body hitting the sheets or the pillows, and she doubts that he would be giving himself the time of his life, so she is going to go with either a nightmare or a panic attack. Neither of these options would be good news, especially with him being as easily startled as he has been. There is nothing she can do that will not freak him out, and now she can only pick the thing that would scare him least but will still get him back to normal – which is not an easy task. 

“Enjolras,” she tries first, whispering to him. “Wake up.” 

Of course that does not work, because he keeps writhing on the bed, stuck in the throes of what appears to be a painful and terrifying nightmare. His body is trying to curl up into a little ball to protect itself, hands balled into fist and nails breaking the skin of his palms. He needs to wake up and he needs to wake up right the fuck now!

“Wake up,” she raises her voice this time, almost screaming in his face. “Enjolras!” 

Still he does not wake up, and she is getting more and more worried about what is going on in this nightmare and how it can have such a hold on him. Is this the person who cursed him coming for him in his dreams, to try and make him marble again? That is all she can think of at the moment with her limited understanding of how magical curses work – the fact that she is even forming this sentence in her mind is ridiculous to her. 

“Please,” she whispers in his ear, inches away from touching him. 

Touching someone in the middle of a nightmare is a terrifying and disorienting experience, she knows that from experience, so she is loathe to touch him while he is so far away in his mind. Still, she can see no other way to wake him up that will not scare or disorient him, so she knows that she will have to touch him and be gentle about it. 

“Enjolras, it’s Éponine,” she gives speaking to him one last try. 

Still, even on this final try she gets no response from him. He continues to sound like he is in great pain and suffering immensely, and she cannot stand to watch it any longer – she has to wake him up! It may scare him and he may lash out her verbally and/or physically, but she cannot stand seeing him in pain like this. 

“I am going to try to wake you up,” she warns him, even though he will not remember or maybe he won’t even hear a single word that she says. “I am going to touch you.” 

Maybe he will not understand, but she is mostly saying this to make herself more comfortable with this situation and with him. She takes a few deep breaths before slowly moving her hand closer to his arm, deciding that touching his arm might be the most harmless thing that she can do at this point. Touching him any more intimately would be wrong and it would make the both of them extremely uncomfortable. 

The spark she feels when her fingers touch his bare arm is ignored because it is just ridiculous and she ignored it before and will again, so it has no bearing here. His skin is way too hot to the touch and she is instantly worried that he might have gotten a fever or any other kind of allergic reaction to this new environment. Maybe he is just not cut out for these times. Oh God, what if he dies here in her bed? How will she explain that?

“Please,” he is now talking, pleading in a broken voice. “Please, no!” 

“Enjolras, wake up,” she sits down on the bed beside him, hoping he will hear her. 

It stops the mindless pleading and babbling for a little while, but nothing else changes, he simply does not wake up – and she is starting to think that she is not going to be able to wake him up at all. Maybe she can try to bring him out of the nightmare instead, even if he will not wake up it will still be better for him to have a restful sleep. 

“Do not hurt me,” now it’s just a broken whisper in her direction. “Please.” 

His pain is written all over his face and she does not know what to do – except her fingers have a life of their own and they begin stroking up and down his arm, just slowly stroking the warm skin in a soothing gesture. 

“Save me,” his whispers turn less panicked. “Can you save me? They found me!” 

She makes soft shushing noises as she continues to stroke his arm gently, her fingers slowly finding her way higher up his body so that she can stroke his hair as if he is a child almost lying in her lap. He needs comfort right now, and she can give it. 

“Don’t go,” he is almost smiling now. “Ma petite soeur.” 

Oh God – she did not even think to imagine that he might have a family that was left behind without any answers. Nobody would have known what happened to him, and his parents and sister would have had nothing left of him to figure it out. Oh God!

Right now she wishes his family was still around, not only to tell them that their son is still alive, but also so that he has a place to go – she cannot babysit him for the rest of her life. She never planned to stay in this damn town for very long, and now she is stuck with him until he understands enough about this world to be on his own. Well, fuck!

“Hush now and sleep,” she tries to make her voice sound soothing. 

Her free hand is still running through his curls, and he has clutched her other hand like he never wants to let her go, clearly taking her for his younger sister. She remembers sitting like this with little Gavroche years ago, and even with Azelma once upon a time – and she swallows harshly and removes her hands from Enjolras’ hair. 

The reminders of before just hurt too much, and she cannot keep doing this anyway. 

“Wake the fuck up,” she mutters while stepping away from him. 

His tossing and turning is once again frantic until he sits up straight, panting as if he’d just run a marathon. Just like that he has woken up, even though she has done everything she could think of to make him stir – cussing at him and leaving him behind seems to have done the trick, which is not something she wants to think of too much. 

“Where am I?” he whispers, sounding scared again. 

“You’re still in my bed,” she tells him, rolling her eyes and trying not to be drawn in by him yet again. “You had a nightmare. You weren’t waking up before.” 

When seeing him like this, hair tousled from her fingers and eyes wide open in fear leftover from his dark dreams; she cannot fault him for anything in that moment. He looks almost boyish and so innocent. Why is it so hard to stay mad at him?

“What’s wrong?” she asks, hating to see him so pained. 

“Nothing that I wish to share,” his face turns into a carefully blank mask. 

But apparently it is really easy to get mad at him, because holy shit she has been pouring out her life story to him in these last few weeks and he just does not tell her a single thing: he will not even tell her his first name. He obviously does not trust her and yet he knows everything about her. She considered the statue a friend but she is quickly figuring out that this Enjolras guy is nothing like her statue. 

“Well that is just neat,” the sarcastic words come pouring out without another thought on her end. “I have stood at that statue, which you say was you, and I poured my heart out. You know everything about me and you won’t tell me a goddamn thing!” 

The foul language she uses only upsets him more, she is sure of that. And her volume is more than loud enough to wake Jehan if he ever came out of the basement – sometimes he spends days and nights in there without coming up for fresh air – and still she cannot seem to find it in herself to care about this. She is filled with rightful anger and she is not going to let that go that easily. He has to understand he is being an asshole. 

“I do not know you,” he tells her calmly. 

“Did you hear what I told you?” she looks at him and catches him nodding at her. “Well then I am sorry but unfortunately enough for you, you do know me. I know I am a huge disappointment, but you’re a real ass for denying this stuff.” 

And with that out of the way she marches back to her spot on the couch, knowing that he won’t even understand why she is so upset about this in the first place. He will not understand how much it cost her to admit these secrets even to an inanimate statue, and he definitely will not understand how much it scares her that there is now a physical person who knows all of her secrets. She needs something she can use against him in return, so that when he threatens to reveal something, she can keep him from that. 

Everything is better with a little blackmail. 

“See you’re more quiet next time,” she snipes at him before pulling the blanket over her head to block out any noise that he might produce later. 

“Éponine,” he tries, but she pretends to be asleep. 

And she does not feel even a bit guilty about that – no, not at all. 

e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e

She wakes up at a decent hour the next morning, thanking whatever Gods anyone might believe in that she has a day off from work – she would not be able to show up and paste on a fake smile for anyone at this point. She is tired from waking up to him having another nightmare, but this time she was stubborn enough to stay on the couch until it was over – no matter how bad she felt about that. 

“Are you awake?” she snipes, still so angry with him. 

“Indeed I am,” the clipped tones tell her he is less than happy as well.

The couch has left her with a bit of a crick in her neck and an ache in the muscles of her back, but otherwise she is left relatively unscathed. These minor pains she can handle, even though they bring back old hurts that return in their usual ways. 

This is the worst possible time to think of the past, so she climbs up from the couch and takes a quick peek into the mirror to see what the damage is. She looks presentable enough to go downstairs and if she puts on some decent clothes she can head right to the store to get the necessary groceries for her and her damn statue man. 

So she slips on a random sweater and some jeans that look like they aren’t dirty – just a bit wrinkled – and she moves to head out of the room, wanting to leave without as much as another word to him. Then, she realizes that she has not laid down the law for him, and it is important that he knows to listen to all of this very closely. 

“I am going out to get us something to eat,” she tells him, quickly checking for a response to make sure that he is listening to her. “You are not allowed to leave this room – unless you’re going to the bathroom. Don’t touch things if you don’t know how they work and for fuck’s sake stay away from my personal stuff. Don’t break anything!” 

Judging by the frustrated look he is sending her from his awkward position spread out on her bed, he has heard every single word and he is none too pleased. 

“Stay here,” she reminds him before heading out of the room. 

Of course she takes a last look at him over her shoulder, and she sees the worry lining his face and she starts worrying if maybe she has been too harsh with him. He is all alone in a completely different world after all, and she is the only support he has – she cannot blame him for being hesitant and distant, only she does. 

He is not the man she thought he would be, and that is what hurts the most. 

The stairs creak even under her weight, even though she hardly weighs anything these days. She has been caught, and she knows it. So she might as well stop trying to be quiet about it – Jehan knows there is a guy upstairs and he is probably not going to let that go any time soon. She might as well keep her chin up and act like this is not a problem. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one who had a rough night,” she hears a familiar voice. 

Coming down the stairs she is faced with R, who has apparently finally returned from his brief family trip. He looks a lot worse for the wear, and she can see the track marks that he is not even trying to hide under his short sleeves. She feels like punching him in the face and smiling at him at the same time, because at least he came back and at least Jehan will be a lot happier now. But she is still making him quit. 

“Don’t go in my room, asshole,” she snipes at him without malice. 

“I’m sure the unlucky guy has already shimmied down the drainpipe,” R grins widely. 

With a pointed look to the backyard, R is being every bit his asshole self, so she knows that he and Jehan have not started fighting yet – which is a pleasant surprise. Also, she is pleasantly surprised that Enjolras does not appear to be climbing down the drainpipe. 

“I rocked his fucking world,” she has to keep up the charade. 

“Well then why aren’t you walking funny?” R seems skeptical. 

There is a part of her that wants to joke about how she never said that this guy rocked her world, but she would not want to do that to Enjolras if he was stupid enough to get caught by R. She would not dare get him mocked by R when he would not even understand half of the terrible jokes R would throw at him. 

“I am flexible,” she sends him a triumphant grin in return. 

“And, I’m done trying to be interested in this,” R just rolls his eyes at her. 

She rolls her eyes at him as well and heads for the door, already making a shopping list in her head, taking special care of foods that Enjolras might be able to eat without freaking out too much or upsetting his newly reactivated digestive system. Damn, she is now taking care of him like he’s a sensitive kid – mostly because she feels guilty for going off on him before, but also because he is basically abandoned in this world he knows nothing about and somehow she still feels like he is her only friend. 

“Need me to bring anything for you?” she asks before going outside. 

“My only wish is for some excitement,” R shouts after her. 

“Like I can make that happen here,” she mutters, sarcasm dripping from her words. 

R will not hear that, but she does not care so much about that. She finds herself on the same street that she dragged Enjolras down only hours ago and she imagines what she would be doing right now if he had not shown up – it probably would have been talking to R about the lack of excitement in this damn town. Sure, there is no excitement in this town, not usually, but there was a statue coming to life just hours ago and she is never going to be able to explain that to anyone. It is something exciting, though. 

The people still stare at her as she walks the streets of Musain; they still look at her like she is a curiosity or some kind of circus freak who has only just escaped and is now dirtying their pristine streets with her weirdness. When they look at her like this, she is more than ready to leave this damn town behind – and her intention was to leave after R came back, but that plan went out the window when Enjolras showed up. 

Everything went out the fucking window except for him. He’d better not go out the damn window or she will most definitely kill him. Wow, her brain is making quite the leap. 

She ignores her surroundings until she gets to the store to get all the damn crap she knows he’s going to need – heck, she even throws in a shirt that should be big enough for him to wear without any kind of indecency occurring. She is almost sad about that. 

Three full bags of groceries and random crap later, she is almost back at the house when she sees that the front door is open. That definitely makes her walk faster, especially when she thinks of all of the ways that Enjolras could have disobeyed her and made a mess out of everything – and she is up to way number thirty-six when she reaches the front door. Thirty-six is him tripping in the bathroom and drawing R upstairs. 

There are voices coming from inside the house, and while she recognizes the kind tones of Jehan’s voice and the wry sarcastic tone that R always uses, there are also two voices that she does not recognize – and that means there is something bad going on. 

“I’m sure she will be here soon,” Jehan says, and her heart starts pounding. “But anyway, R, did I ever make you listen to that one with the dolphin sounds?”

Her slow shuffle into the house is like a walk into the next level of hell: something bad is coming, but she has no idea what bad thing it is exactly. 

And then she sees the bad and wishes she had never come to this town. 

In the living room are two gendarmes, looking at the door impatiently while Jehan and R chat about the most ridiculous songs that they have ever heard. She is frozen to the spot. 

“Oh, there you are,” R finally spots her, and her body immediately starts shaking wildly in response. “Éponine, do you know anything about a stolen statue?”

Well fuck!


	6. Chapter six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gendarmes arrive

“Are you mademoiselle Thénardier?” the man on the left asks. 

Fuck! And they even found out her fucking last name, which means that she is never going to be able to show her face around this town again. Her reflexive flinch is quickly hidden underneath a smile that is faker than anything she has ever attempted. 

“That would be me, yes,” she tries to sound polite. 

“We have been told that you recently started working at the museum,” the gendarme on the left appears to be the one who is going to do the talking. 

Yes, these men are definitely suspicious of her, and there is nothing that she is able to do to assuage these suspicions. Because they are right about her; she is involved with the disappearance of this statue – that is, if she is choosing to believe that Enjolras is who he claims to be. And right now that starts making more and more sense, because she has no other explanation for the statue disappearing and him looking so much like it and coming up with this explanation that fits all the facts. She is starting to believe him. 

“I started working there less than two weeks ago,” she tells the gendarmes. 

“I find it rather suspicious that within two weeks after your employment starts,” the man on the left responds, “a priceless statue is stolen. A priceless statue that you have a known fascination with – now you can imagine that we’d want to talk to you.” 

She can also imagine just how screwed she is at this point, because it is always the newest employee they suspect – plus there is the fact that she is actually involved in the disappearance of the statue. She might not have had anything to do with the curse that turned Enjolras into a statue years ago and turned him back last night, but she was the one that helped him get out of the museum and into this very house. 

“I did not steal the statue,” she tells them, knowing that at least that part is correct. “I can’t imagine how I would pull that off all by myself. I’m only a skinny girl and that statue would be ridiculously heavy. I could not lift that.” 

Yes, she makes herself sound a lot dumber than she actually is, because the look on the left guy’s face is just too focused for her peace of mind. He looks like he will hunt her until the end of time and the edge of the earth – because he finds someone guilty long before the law agrees or disagrees with his findings. He looks like the kind of passionate policeman that would always bring trouble on her family, back in the day. 

“Still we would like to take a look around,” the man on the right finally speaks, and he sounds rather bored with the whole situation. “Monsieur Javert and I have every right to search your rooms, so if you would please direct us there.” 

That makes her stop in her tracks immediately, because not only does she know the name of Javert as the name of the man who doggedly pursued her father until he finally got him – at least temporarily – but they want to see her room too. Her room is the place where the transformed statue is currently hiding, where he has been instructed to stay unless she tells him otherwise. She cannot even count all of the ways in which this is bad news for her and for Enjolras – they cannot find him. 

“My room is a mess,” she starts stammering, not knowing what else to say. 

“I am sure we will be able to find everything we need,” Javert speaks. 

And that would be the problem, them finding everything they need in her room. Because that would also be everything they need to put her behind bars for a very long time – they do not need any real evidence when they find the former statue live in the flesh, casually hanging out in her room. They would not be able to explain it, but they sure as hell would be able to arrest her for theft and some miscellaneous others things that they could cook up to fill the gaps that her story still has. 

They could question Enjolras and make him tell them everything – and he would be locked up in an institution somewhere without ever having even the slightest possibility of getting out. The mere thought of that hurts, and that is without wondering what will happen to her because they will obviously think that she is the sane one cooking up this grand plan. Her last name is never going to do her any favors. 

“Can you at least give me a minute to clean up my underwear?” she pleads. 

The gendarmes start to basically frog march her up the stairs while she tries to think of ways in which she can alert Enjolras to the presence of the cops without seeming too suspicious. Also, she would need to give him enough time to get out of the room somehow, but the only door is the one they are now steadily approaching. There is no other way out of that room except for the window, and since this room is on the third floor, there is no way that someone could fall out of the window and be okay. 

“I swear there’s some really weird stuff on the floor,” she starts thinking of more stupid excuses to use. “Please just let me clean up my underwear. There might be used condoms on the floor somewhere, just please let me throw that stuff out first.” 

If the police officers are going to search her room and she needs an excuse, she might as well use the same bullshit story that she used in front of her roommates the night before. She might as well stick with the one night stand story and hope that enough sticks for them to give her a few seconds to work her statue out of the room so that they don’t both get arrested and left to rot in jail for the rest of their lives. 

Oh God, what if they find Enjolras and think that he stole the statue? They are going to think that she is involved in it somehow. These gendarmes are going to think that she is his accomplice and that they are part of some grand team of con-artists and thieves. She is going to have to spend the rest of her life in jail. 

What if they give her the death penalty? Does France have the death penalty? She is going to get a needle in her arm just because she started talking to a stupid statue and he somehow decided to listen to her and wake the fuck up. 

Why did she even come to this stupid town in the first place?

“I’m sure the lucky fellow left already,” asshole cop is grinning at her. 

Yep, she is giving this one a nickname since he has not given her his real name. He is smirking at her and eyeing her cleavage like some pervert and he is all around making her more uncomfortable than Javert the bloodhound. She would rather have Javert chasing her for the rest of this life than to have this guy anywhere near her for any longer than is absolutely necessary. But alas, she has absolutely no choice in this particular scenario, and there is nothing that she hates more than having no choices and having her back against the wall with nowhere to go but down all the bad roads. 

She remembers going down all of the bad roads when she was younger and more stupid, and now she is left wondering if going with Enjolras on his weird story might not be the stupidest road that she has ever travelled on. 

Still, telling on him to the cops might be the worst idea to try, even if this stupid plan is going to get her a needle in the arm and a death that comes too soon. 

“Just give me a few seconds to clean up some of the mess,” she pleads for the last time. 

“No,” Javert is firm in his refusal, and her shoulders sag. 

In her head, she is silently saying her last goodbyes to Jehan and R, reminding them that they are nuts about each other and they should just do it already and save everyone else the pain of watching them make eyes at each other and create dramatic obstacles that are not actually there. She is reminding them that there are several pints of their favorite ice cream in the fridge and that there is a good movie on the TV that they might watch together in lieu of fighting. She is tired of the sadness and the melancholy, and if these idiots have to do it without her nothing will ever happen. 

“Fuck,” she pretends to trip on the stairs, making as much noise as she can. 

If nothing else she has done has alerted Enjolras to the fact that something has gone completely wrong and he needs to make himself scarce in whatever way that he possibly can, than nothing that she can do will get the message through to him. There is no other way that she can think to use that will not get her arrested on even worse charges than she already might be facing. She is just so fucking screwed!

“Stop the theatrics honey,” asshole cop forcibly hoists her back onto her feet. 

“Stop calling me honey, honey,” she mutters under her breath. 

Whether or not Javert actually heard her or if he just chose that moment to let out a sharp cough, she will never know. Still, she is too distracted by them reaching the door to her safe haven – her safe haven that will soon lose that safe status. 

“Please open the door miss Thénardier,” Javert then asks, sounding almost polite. 

The door handle almost slips from her clammy hands, but she merely grips it tighter and pushes it down, opening the door. She closes her eyes for a final prayer that she is not going to end up on an electric chair and then gives the door a final push. 

With a deep breath, she then opens her eyes and prepares to give Enjolras an apologetic look – only she finds that the room is perfectly spotless. The sweaters that were lying around on the chair and the desk are folded and back in the closet, her shirts and jeans are in the hamper and her pajama shirt is left on the bed, neatly folded. Heck, even the bed has been made, and it looks like she could bounce a quarter off it – just like she used to make the beds in her parents’ old inn. The entire room is just, spotless. 

“Oh yes, I can just see the underwear lying around,” asshole cop comments, pushing her further into the room. “I cannot believe you’d leave this mess like this.” 

The entire room is also empty – she cannot see Enjolras anywhere. There isn’t a single trace of him left; none of his clothes are lying around, and she cannot spot a single blond curl on any of the furniture. He simply is not there!

Even the bathroom door is open, and the stack of towels appears more perfect than she had left them a few days before. It looks as if someone ordered a maid service in her absence and the maid thought she was getting the biggest tip in her career. She cannot see a single speck of dust or a single object that is out of place!

Her sketchpads are perfectly stacked on the desk – she is going to have to kill him if he took the time to look at the drawings and discover how obsessed she was with him until he actually came to life almost in front of her. She might actually have to kill him and risk jail time and the needle if he saw any of her drawings – especially the nudes. 

“Excuse me,” Javert pushes past her stunned self. 

Asshole cop is long gone into the room, messing up the perfect organizational system that Enjolras has apparently said up in her short absence. He is throwing everything to the floor and it now physically pains her to see her statue’s hard work destroyed without any care or regard. She feels her hands clenching into fists. 

“Looks like your date cleaned up before he hightailed it out of here,” asshole cop just has to comment. “I’m sure he just really had to be somewhere.” 

Yep, she is about five seconds away from punching this guy in the face; her fists clenched up and ready to risk an assault charge just to get the satisfaction of watching this guy fall to the floor. At this point he is being an asshole for no reason, and she would prefer Javert’s vendetta against anyone named Thénardier over being treated without any kind of respect for her as a person. Any more comments and she’ll punch him – hard. 

“Felix, that’s enough,” Javert seems to be as fed up with this as she is. 

For a few seconds she is actually grateful, until she realizes that this is Javert and that he hates her and her entire family. So she sends a petulant glare at both of the cops and she sits down on the couch, pondering the magic that must have gone into Enjolras’ disappearance from her attic room. Because there is no other way for him to disappear like this; even the space under the bed is completely empty. It was not empty before, so Enjolras did have the time to clean it before he mysteriously disappeared. 

Everything in the room has had the chance to be completely spotless for a second before these gendarmes made a bigger mess than this room was before Enjolras got his hands on all of her things. She might have time to thank Enjolras for the quick cleaning job if they manage to stay out of jail. That does not seem very likely, though. 

“Nothing,” asshole Felix mutters under his breath. 

“If that is all?” she questions, trying not to grin at the smug asshole. 

She wishes that she could see him eat dirt for a little while more, his nicely pressed clothes ruined by the digging around her room for anything that he could find that might possibly incriminate her. But there is absolutely nothing in her room that links her to the disappearance of the statue, even though the very much alive man who used to be said statue was in her bed about an hour ago. The world has become a very strange place. 

“This is not over,” the asshole warns her with a smug grin. 

“Please do not leave town until this investigation is over,” Javert sticks with the typical formalities as he moves past her and away from the attic. 

“Of course,” is all that she says in response to that. “Good day, messieurs.” 

The way she waves them goodbye is positively drenched in sarcasm, but she does it anyway, no matter how much it is going to piss them off. She does not care if they like her or hate her; right now she is just so very glad to see the back of them, at least for the time being. Right now she just needs to sit in her room and wonder just what the hell happened to Enjolras and how he possibly could have disappeared like that. 

“Enjolras?” she whispers after the gendarmes have gone down the stairs. 

There is no answer, just a creak of the stairs on the ground floor and a loud slam of the door. The gendarmes have left the house and she is left stunned and alone in her attic room, wondering if she is ever going to see Enjolras again. 

What if this was the thing that made him disappear somehow and the gendarmes are going to go back to the museum and find the statue in his same old spot? What if this made the curse come back and left him marble again? She worries that this curse is real and that she has made it impossible for him to ever break the curse (again). 

Right now she just hates herself a lot – for all of this. 

“Where are you?” she almost raises her voice to a normal volume. 

She stomps into the bathroom, expecting to find him hidden behind a shower curtain or something equally stupid, but yet again she only finds the empty room. The tiles are clean and the towels are still stacked perfectly – somehow asshole Felix did not get to these – but there is not even a trace of Enjolras to be found. 

“Damn it you idiot,” she mutters before strutting out of the bathroom. 

The window seems like the next logical place to look, because even though a third floor window does not seem like the most logical exit plan that Enjolras could have used, she does not know him well enough to be able to tell what he would do – for all she knows he has some kind of special powers. For all she knows he just flew out of the window and disappeared into the big, big world never to return to Musain. 

Yeah, okay, that does sound ridiculous, even for him. 

“Fuck,” she stubs her toe on the table that asshole Felix moved. 

Nothing is where it is supposed to be, so she just moves to the window because at least that hasn’t moved in the last ten minutes. The view has not changed either, because the gendarmes are long gone, so she is left with a pretty decent view of the garden. As usual, the damn garden is completely empty.

Then, she sees a flash of gold in one of the bushes, and she gets it. 

“Son of a bitch,” she groans. 

She breaks into a run, practically flying out of her attic room and down the stairs, flying past a very confused Jehan and a very intrigued R. There is a brief pause when she tries to remember which door she needs to take so that she can get to the back garden without Enjolras noticing her approach and fleeing the scene. Then she remembers and tiptoes in the direction of the door before deciding speed is the better choice. 

If she is fast enough, she might actually be able to surprise him and keep him from trying to get away. If only she is fast enough, she might be able to keep hiding him from the gendarmes and from her roommates as well. She doubts that this is in any way possible, but she is still going to give it a shot. She has to give this a try. 

She puts some of her training to good use as she sneaks into the garden, being as light-footed as she can possibly be. It is one of the few skills from her slightly criminal skillset that she still uses from time to time, and one that she finds fun to use to freak people out a little or to go about mostly unnoticed. Maybe one night at the bar she can tip off Musichetta and freak the guys out a lot and have Chetta tape some blackmail material of the lot of them wailing like babies. That should be a lot of fun. 

Apparently the bushes have developed golden curls, since there are hints of gold peaking out even through the shades of green. 

“Found you,” she says matter-of-factly. 

That makes him curl into himself more for a second, as if he can hide from her in any way after she has already seen him hiding in the bush. The red shirt is a dead giveaway and the golden curls catch the sunlight every single time he even tries to make a move – now that she knows he is in the garden she cannot lose him again. 

He can try to hide, but she just found out he’s quite good at that.

Actually, she is kind of glad that he managed to hide himself so well when the police were searching her rooms, but she would have liked to know that he hid himself before she started freaking out that she was about to get the electric chair. 

“You startled me,” he looks up at her, not even climbing out of the bushes. 

He apparently was so absorbed in the book he appeared to be reading that he did not notice her entering the garden and sneaking up on him. She cannot tell what book he was staring at so intensely, but she is sure that he will learn something from it – she has very little books and most of the books in the attic belong to the boys. Those books are explicit and modern, a lot of Beat literature that would shock the sensibilities of a lot of people. Enjolras would be disgusted with Burroughs, and confused by Kerouac. 

But since he isn’t flinching or looking at anything in disgust, she thinks he might have found Jehan’s poetry collection instead, enraptured as he seems by this book. Jehan has quite the collection, and if she were that kind of girl, she would ask Enjolras to read these out to her to hear what they sound like in his voice – all proper and cultured and deep. She would love to appreciate poetry in the way that she does art. 

“How did you get here?” she asks. “How did you manage to get to the attic from the garden without alerting the gendarmes? You scared the shit out of me! I thought I was going to be arrested! And what, you spirited away with your magic powers?”

So she might be coming across as more than a bit hysterical, but at this point she is just beyond caring. So much has happens in the last twenty-four hours that she fears her head might explode if there is even one more twist added to her story. Her heart is still pounding from her encounter with the gendarmes, for fuck’s sake!

“I climbed down on that pipe,” Enjolras climbs out of the bushes and points to the drainpipe on the side of the house. “I heard the approach of the two police officers and decided that it would be best if I made myself scarce.” 

Still he remains so polite, even when she is this close to yelling at him for scaring and worrying her, acting like he is some little kid and she is his caretaker. She almost wants to tear her hair out; her messy dark locks all gone because for several minutes she was sure that she was going to end up with a needle in her arm. For several minutes she was blaming him for the end of her life as she knew it. 

“And you left me there to freak out?” she raises her voice because it’s the only way she knows how to deal with this. “You cleaned up my entire room – for which I thank you – and then you bailed and didn’t let me know where you were?”

She tries really hard not to notice how the red shirt clings to his body as he finally stands up straight in front of her. He is no longer hiding and while that might be dangerous if the gendarmes even think of going back, she appreciates that he is standing up and looking her in the eyes for this conversation. This is not a conversation that she particularly wants to be having in the first place, let alone when he’s pouting in the bushes and she has to yell at him like he is some kind of errant child. 

“I thought it a good show of thanks to clean up some of the mess in the room,” he says. 

Her sore feet are thankful for that because after a ten hour day at the museum the last thing that she wants to do is clean under her bed or fold the clothes that she is going to make a mess of anyway. Her feet always hurt after this entire day of being on them and she is tired of everything and she just wants to eat and sleep and not bother with stupid things like messes. So yeah, having him as a temporary maid was nice. 

“So why the Houdini antics?” she wants him to keep talking. 

“To what kind of antics are you referring?” the reference goes right over his head. 

Oh fucking hell, this is just one of the problems with him being a statue come to life: he has no idea what the fuck is going on at this point in time and any reference she makes is just going to go right over his head because he was marble when the reference became a thing. Unless she can think of something Shakespearean, there is no joke that she can make that he will actually understand. She likes her jokes, and while she knows her art history, she has no doubt that she is vague on a lot of the actual history. She is either going to have to teach him about this whole new world, or she is going to have to do some serious history research if she ever wants to be able to understand him. 

“What year are you even from?” she looks to the heavens, tired and exasperated. 

“I do not feel comfortable discussing this with you,” he looks down instead. 

Ah yes, more secrets, because that is just what she needs right now. She finally believes that he really is this protesting man who was made into marble by magic or some kind of dark curse, and he refuses to talk about it. That’s just neat. 

“I’m telling you I believe your stupid curse story and that’s how you respond?” she is completely ready to just throw in the towel and leave him to it. 

“It is not a story, mademoiselle,” he emphasizes the title. 

People have called her the queen of distancing herself, but that means that Enjolras would have to be her king – not only will he not talk to her, he is now reverting back to a title rather than referring to her by name. She really thought that they were making progress, but apparently that was not going to happen, just because he was not going to let it. He is being a hypocrite – she has told him everything about herself already!

“Stop that!” she scrunches up her face and clenches her fists. 

“This is my life and you refuse to acknowledge it,” he raises his voice. “When one looks at it like that it is quite reasonable of me to feel uncomfortable talking about this with you.” 

It is not her fault that his life sounds like it comes straight out of some kind of storybook, and it is exactly the kind of story that she had already stopped believing in by the time she started school. She had to grow up fast and deal with the real world at a very young age and in the real world statues did not turn into flesh and blood people – that kind of shit only happened to Pinocchio. Enjolras does not have a growing nose, though. 

“I don’t give a shit about reasonable!” she scoffs. “I had to lie to the cops for you today! I could have gone to jail for years over this and you won’t even tell me your first name! You won’t tell me a damn thing about yourself – but you know all about me.” 

Her chin is raised so that she is able to look straight into his eyes, so she almost misses it when he tries to hide away the book that he was looking at before. The lines on the outside cover of the book are way too familiar, and then she realizes the reason why this book is so familiar to her: the book is actually hers. It is her latest sketchbook, the one that was supposed to be on top of the pile because she was going to hide it away somewhere so that he wouldn’t find it. The thing consists for about 95% of sketches of him and he has not only found it, he has actively taken the time to look at it. 

“Give me my sketches,” she holds out her hand, practically fuming. “Those are private!” 

Enjolras is supposed to be a gentleman so he is supposed to give her back her sketches without so much as another word – but apparently he is not the kind of person she thought he was, because instead of giving it back he holds it over his head and far out of her reach. She is this close to punching him and taking the book by force. 

“You are a talented artist,” Enjolras tells her, still holding the book up high. 

“I so do not need your insincere compliments right now,” she tells him, completely done with all of this bullshit. “Just give me the damn sketchpad and stop trying to pry in my life when you won’t even tell me a damn thing about your fucking life!” 

She makes a desperate grab for the sketches but he is too tall for her to be able to reach them. The curses she lets out do not bear repeating, their significance is mostly in the way these words make him blush and lose his way – somehow managing to keep her sketchpad out of her reach even with his embarrassment. 

“Well hello there,” she hears R’s voice behind her and almost jumps. 

Stepping away from Enjolras like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar, she starts thinking of excuses in her head. Still she thinks that sticking with the idea of him being her one night stand would be the best idea – that is if they don’t get too close to him. 

“Is this the guy from last night?” Jehan seems intrigued by that idea. 

Of course since these two have been in Musain for a large part of their lives, they would know just about everyone in the town and Enjolras would not look familiar – at least not in that way. He would just be someone new to them, and she has to prepare for that and their damn curiosity and their need to know about everything. 

“Is he new in town?” Jehan asks another question. “Why is he hiding in the garden?”

She expected a some kind of smartass comment from R at this point, but when she looks at him to tease him about being way too quiet, she finds him with a look on his face that almost takes her breath away. He looks completely entranced and entirely amazed by Enjolras, and for a second there she is worried that he is going to throw over Jehan to get a chance with Enjolras. She is worried that this look is a sign of some kind of sexual tension going on between him and Enjolras – if that is the case she is going to have to smack both of them because she will be damned if they hurt Jehan’s feelings like that!

For a second she lets herself believe in this stupid idea of R and Enjolras having this weird sexual tension, and then she sees that R appears to be staring at Jehan as well. He is just surprised by Enjolras – and that’s when she realizes R has figured out his identity and he believes! R, the resident cynic, actually believes!

For some reason R has believed this piece of town folklore, this glorified fairy tale about the protesting man being turned into marble. For some reason R still believes it now, staring at Enjolras like he has just seen a ghost, and for him Enjolras is a sort of ghost from his less than cynical moments coming to life and showing him that maybe hanging on to this story is not a bad thing. It is showing him that people do get second chances, and after everything R has been through and everything he has done, he can still have the opportunity for a second chance. If only he would just take that chance!

If only Enjolras would realize that this is his second chance to actually live!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
